D, S, And 24 Others
by Jamie552
Summary: My first shot at an alphabet game-an individual one-shot for every letter of the alphabet. Lots and lots of Limp!Sam and Protective!Dean, as well as some other ones mixed in there as well.
1. A and B

**Author's Note:** Ok, so from what I've heard, this is called an "alphabet game"-I'm going to be posting an individual one-shot for every letter of the alphabet. Quite the project! lol This is a work in progress, but I'll try and keep on top of posting. Hope everyone is doing well and hope that you like the first entry!

**Warning: Here be language! I remember two specific f-bombs that I couldn't help but drop.**

* * *

**A/N for "A"-** I came up with this one quite randomly. I've never experienced something like this, but I've heard that it's truly horrible.

**A/N for "B"- **This letter is dedicated to a dear friend of mine who gave me the idea. A tad angsty, but I hope that you enjoy it!

* * *

**A is for Allergy**

Allergy: a damaging immune response by the body to a substance (such as pollen, dust, or a particular food) to which is has become hypersensitive.

* * *

Sam was walking funny.

That was the first give away that there was a problem.

Dean couldn't help but frown as he watched his brother walk—well, _waddle_—away from him, across the parking lot towards the Impala.

"Uh…Sammy?"

The kid came to a slow stop and looked over his shoulder, meeting Dean's worried gaze. His voice was considerably strained when he replied. "Yeah?"

Dean's frown deepened at the pained response. "What's wrong with you?"

"Huh?"

"You're walkin' funny."

"No I'm not."

"Yeah, dude, you totally are."

Sam cringed. The movement he made, as if trying to adjust his jeans into a more…_comfortable position_…was another give away.

Before Dean could open his mouth to ask, Sam raised a hand and beckoned his older brother closer. Dean didn't even hesitate—he crossed the asphalt in three quick strides, coming a stop at Sam's side.

After a moment and another strained facial expression, Sam leaned closer; Dean moved closer instinctively in response.

"Did you…put itching powder in my boxers again?"

Dean withdrew slightly in surprise. "Did I _what_?"

"Itching powder? In my boxers?"

"Yeah, no."

"You didn't?"

"No, I didn't."

"You promise?"

Dean frowned again, "Yeah, I promise."

"Dammit." Sam sighed, adjusting his jeans again. For a moment he looked like he was five years old again and in desperate need of a toilet.

"What's goin' on?"

"I'm…_itchy_."

"Itchy?"

"Yeah. You know." Sam raised his eyebrows pointedly. "_Itchy_."

"You're itch—" Realization dawned and Dean's mouth popped open. "Oh."

"Yeah. _Oh_."

He tried to hide his amusement. He _really_ did. After all, Sammy looked like he was suffering. But the smart ass that lived in his mouth couldn't help it. "Dude, did you uh…hook up with any skeevy waitresses when I wasn't lookin'?"

Sam tried to scowl but only came across as looking ill. "Dean-"

"It's a reasonable question, Sammy."

"Dean, _you_ hook up with skeevy waitresses—"

Dean feigned hurt. "Hey."

"I dunno what it is, man."

"Well, it ain't itching powder, I'll tell you that." After a moment, Dean spoke in a soft voice—still trying to hide his amusement in the face of his little brother's discomfort. "You try anythin' new…_down there_?"

"_New_? Like what?"

"Dammit, Sam, I don't know. A different kind of soap?"

"Same as I always use."

"Nothing kinky?"

"No." Sam deadpanned. "Nothing kinky."

The older man watched, his concern exploding, as Sam suddenly doubled over, his hands resting on his knees. The kid let out a loud breath and was obviously hurting.

Dean's concern had reached its limit.

"Ok, can you make it to the car?"

Sam nodded and slowly straightened up. "Yeah, I think so."

"We're findin' you a doctor."

"I'm not going to a doctor, Dean."

Placing a hand firmly on Sam's shoulder, Dean raised an eyebrow and asked quietly, "You really wanna be messin' with that particular…_area_…Sammy?"

The younger brother seemed to consider the question seriously before sighing and looking truly pitiful. "I don't wanna go to a doctor and ask about somethin' like this."

"Why not?"

"Would _you_?"

"Depends. Is this imaginary doctor hot?"

Sam's shoulders dropped slightly. "Can you be serious?"

"Thirty seconds is my record-"

"Dean."

"I'm sorry, dude, I _can't_ take you seriously when you keep shiftin' around like that."

"I can't help it, Dean, it's not exactly _comfortable_."

As carefully as he could, Dean helped a weebly-wobbly Sammy move towards the car. He gave a small whimper as they worked together to lower him into the passenger seat.

Dean, all amusement gone, swallowed hard and leaned in. "You ok?"

"It friggin' hurts."

"We're findin' a doctor, stow your pride." Dean pushed the passenger door closed with a slam and quickly made his way around the Impala's front end, slipping in behind the wheel. "I think I saw a sign for a hospital a few miles back."

Sam nearly whimpered again as Dean started the car, the engine rumbling to life.

"Hang tight, Sammy."

He steered the car through the semi-crowded parking lot. Finally finding a break in traffic, Dean punched the accelerator.

* * *

"_Allergic reaction_?"

The doctor nodded knowingly and Dean couldn't help but stare at him. Subconsciously moving closer to Sam—who was sitting on the exam table after the humiliating physical assessment—he frowned. "An allergic reaction to _what_?"

"I could be any number of things." Leaning back in his chair, the doctor continued, "But in my opinion? I'd say it was a reaction to a certain type of cotton."

"Cotton?"

The doctor nodded again before turning his eyes towards Sam. "Have you switched the brand of your underwear lately, Sam?"

What the hell kinda question was _that_?

The skin of Sam's cheeks tinted with a gentle red and Dean reassuringly placed a hand on his shoulder. Sam looked up at him—as if asking for permission—and Dean sent him a small nod.

The kid took a deep breath, "Yeah. We travel a lot and we stopped a couple days ago. I grabbed the first kind I saw."

Dean squeezed Sam's shoulder soothingly and looked to the doctor. "An allergic reaction to _underwear_?"

"It's actually quite common. Some people have incredibly sensitive skin…that particular area of the body more so than anywhere else. Suddenly switching brands can sometimes trigger a reaction—the material; polyester, cotton, latex…sometimes the _dye_ can have even an effect."

Sam looked utterly mortified.

"I can prescribe a topical cream for the inflammation and I'd suggest you either go back to your usual brand or find a new brand that's high quality, that's sensitive skin friendly and bacterial resistant." He stood from his chair and grabbed Sam's chart. "I'll go and order the prescription, you can get it filled in the pharmacy downstairs before you leave."

Dean nodded and muttered a quiet 'thank you' as the doctor left the room.

The older Winchester brother was torn.

On the one hand, he wanted to be sympathetic. After all, the cash'n'prizes was a scary place to have a problem like that and an allergic reaction to underwear couldn't have been comfortable. Actually, the look of pain on Sam's face was enough to get the enormous compassion lying dormant within Dean stirring.

But then, on the other hand? It was friggin' hilarious.

Seriously, an allergic reaction to _boxer shorts_? What the hell was the world comin' to?

In the end, little brother's need for sensitivity won out and Dean pushed down his amusement. Sammy was in pain…Sammy was embarrassed and humiliated.

Sammy always came before everything else.

"Hey, you ok?"

Sam sighed and ran a hand through his floppy hair. "Why is my luck so crappy?"

"It's not that bad, Sammy-"

"I'm allergic to my freakin' underwear, Dean. It can't get much worse than that."

Dean snorted against his will but immediately tried to sober up. "Well, you heard the doc. You can't wear those outta here. Time to go commando."

Sam groaned and Dean, again, tried _desperately_ not to laugh.

* * *

The bathroom door had been closed for almost twenty minutes and Dean sighed somewhat anxiously as he glanced at his watch.

They'd left the hospital shortly after getting Sam's prescription filled, the pharmacist (an absolutely _gorgeous_ brunette with curves to match) giving both brothers a small rundown on the medication and how it should be used. She'd flirted and sent a delicious stare at him from over the counter but Dean had absolutely no trouble keeping his usually traitorous attention solely on his brother.

Sammy came first—before unbridled amusement and mouth-watering brunettes…before Dean's own wants, urges and cravings.

He could feel his little brother silently _begging_ him for support and understanding—and when Sammy asked, he got. End of story.

That didn't stop him from casting one last longing glance at the pharmacist over his shoulder as they left, however.

They'd returned to their motel as quickly as possible, Sam nearly crying from the feeling of rough denim against his sensitive skin.

Dean no longer had it in him to be amused, it wasn't funny anymore; the moisture welling in Sam's eyes, the red flush of his face from the effort of stifling each whimper and gasp as they'd walked from the car to their room. None of it was funny.

Actually, if he could find the sorry bastard who was responsible for that friggin' brand of underwear, he'd crack-pound the guy senseless on behalf of big brothers everywhere who'd ever had to watch their younger siblings suffer because of something as ridiculous and unnecessary as _skin irritation._

All the wounds they'd had over the years—all the bleeding, the stitches, the road burn, bruises, breaks, dislocations and scrapes—dealing with something so _normal_ was making Dean feel sick.

Give him bruised ribs and a stitch-worthy gash _any_ day, dammit.

He finally couldn't stand it anymore and stood up from his seat on the edge of his bed. The room they'd ended up in was small and he crossed to the bathroom quickly. Raising a hand he knocked gently with a single knuckle, listening hard for any kind of sound from the other side of the door.

"Sammy? You ok?"

There was a slight scuffling sound, then in a quiet voice, "Yeah. I'm ok."

"You sure? You've been in there a long time."

The knob suddenly turned and the door opened slowly, revealing a worse for the wear Sammy who was trying hard to appear normal. "Did you need in there?"

"No, no…I just, y'know. Wanted to make sure you were alright."

Dean's concern was rewarded with a small but genuine smile. "Yeah, Dean, I'm ok." The older brother watched as Sam gingerly moved passed him, making his way to his own bed and settling himself carefully onto the mattress. "Just a little sore."

"You try that medication stuff?"

Sam nodded. "Used it after I got outta the shower."

"Hopefully after a couple times usin' it you'll start feelin' better."

"Hope so. _Really_ don't wanna go commando again."

A smile broke out on the older man's face as he walked around his brother's bed, lowering himself once again onto his _own_ bed and sitting directly across from Sam. "Yeah, man, I hear ya."

A small silence followed, both brothers sitting quietly, lost in their own thoughts.

After the past few weeks, Dean was starting to think "stress" was his middle name and "disaster" was somehow tattooed on his forehead. They'd been plagued by small but absolutely insane problems, the loose ends tying up nicely with Sam's allergic reaction.

"Hey…Dean?" He shifted slightly and then let out a breath, timidly meeting his brother's familiar green eyes. "Thanks."

Dean frowned slightly. "For what?"

"For…_not_ being a complete jerk about this."

Dean couldn't stop himself from pulling back slightly at the truly embarrassed sound of Sam's voice. The kid was actually _thanking him_ for not making fun of him…was actually _thanking him_ for keeping quiet and being supportive.

And if that didn't make Dean feel like the worlds biggest _ass_ he didn't know what did.

He swallowed and then sent Sam a small smile. "Don't worry 'bout it, man. You know, I _can_ be serious every once in a while."

"Thought that thirty seconds was your record?"

"Yeah, well—" Dean smiled somewhat shyly. "Records are meant to be broken, right?"

All Sam did was grin in return, leaning back against the headboard of his bed.

Yeah, records were meant to be broken.

Even one as sacred as Dean's sarcasm, the very core of his buoyant personality.

It _was _Sammy after all, right?

* * *

**B is for Buried**

Buried: to put or hide something underground; to place (eg. a dead body) in the earth, or in a tomb.

* * *

_Cigarette smoke clouded the air in the small bar as Dean moved silently through the crowd. The music pounded in his ears but it was a good song so he wasn't complaining. _

_Ah hell, he was never going to complain again…as long as the gorgeous brunette by the door made good on _half_ of the promises she'd seductively whispered in his ear only moments before. His body was tense and wound pretty tight; he needed the play, he was long overdue._

_Despite how busy the place was it took no time at all to spot the clown-footed geek in one of the far booths. As was usual, he was hunkered over their dad's journal and several newspaper clippings. Dean was sure if the kid leaned any further forward his nose would make contact with the newsprint. _

_If Sammy got ink on his nose, Dean would make sure he never heard the end of it._

_He approached in his usual swaggering manner, unable to keep the teasing grin from his face. He didn't bother sitting down. "What are you up to over here?"_

"_Just lookin' through a couple things," he sighed. "Trying to find us a job."_

"_Anything good?"_

"_Not really. There was a woman in Omaha? Jumped from a plane at ten thousand feet, shoot didn't open, she survived."_

_Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Anything about it sound supernatural?"_

"_I don't think so. More dumb luck than anything."_

" _I guess if you're gonna have dumb luck, that's the time to have it."_

"_Yeah, no kidding."_

_He cleared his throat quietly. "Hey, uh…Sam?"_

_After a second, Sam nodded absently. "Yeah."_

"_Look, I'm uh…takin' off." When Sam looked up and met his eyes, Dean tipped his head towards the waiting brunette by the door, "I'll catch you later."_

_Sam's eyes followed Dean's direction and then flickered up to his face. "Have fun."_

_Dean didn't miss the resigned sigh and he felt the flash of guilt in his own eyes. "Sammy, I—"_

"_No, it's ok." Sam interrupted him, shaking his head. "Sorry." He raised his beer bottle and took a long pull off it. "Go ahead and have fun."_

_He stayed for only a few seconds more before touching Sam's shoulder in a show of Winchester gratitude—'cause, you know, opening his mouth and saying the words, even to his brother, was still too hard. _

_As soon as he turned away from the booth and started towards the door, the brunette—Tara? Tamara?—smiled enticingly at him. He returned her smile and pushed his little brother from his mind. _

_When he was with a woman was the only time he allowed himself to do that._

_It was something he would never do again._

* * *

The beer bottle shattered explosively against the cheaply papered wall in a shower of glass and foam. It hadn't even occurred to him to drink it. He'd had enough beer and booze over those three days.

That's how long it had been.

Three days since he'd walked out of that bar, never once looking back. Three days since he'd last seen his little brother's face. Three days of countless questions and not one answer.

They'd crossed into Milford, Pennsylvania earlier that week after following a paper trail of suspicious events—mauled bodies, blood pools, inhuman screams and noises coming from the local woods. It had taken Sam no time at all to determine that a berserker was on the loose, and after only a couple of hours traveling time with Dean behind the wheel, they'd made it to town.

The hunt had gone relatively smoothly, thank goodness; the only damage had been suffered by Dean who'd stubbed his toe on the way back to the car. But for an on the job injury, it was one both brothers could live with.

The small bar in town had been a pit stop the night before they were scheduled to hit the road again—Sam trying to find them a new job…Dean trying to find himself some much needed recreation.

Then Sam was gone, leaving Dean to work on a brand new job.

He was still hunting…only now, he was hunting a little brother.

He hadn't even known that his brother was missing.

He'd spent the night at the brunette's apartment across town and had returned to their motel bright and early the next morning, his body satisfied and his muscles loose. Sam's empty and untouched bed had raised more than one red flag and a quick phone call had uncovered the familiar blackberry sitting forgotten and completely useless on the nightstand.

An hour passed, then two…and then three.

Half-crazed with worry and rage, Dean had stomped out to the Impala and started searching.

There'd been no sign of Sam at the local pansy-ass coffee shop or in the library and no one around town even remembered seeing him. Their attempts to remain unnoticed and invisible had apparently been far more successful than either of them had ever thought.

The trail, or lack thereof, had quickly gone cold and Dean had reached the end of his rapidly fraying rope.

That's when he'd found the note slipped under their motel room door. One sentence…one question that had sent poisonous ice water coursing through Dean's veins.

_How much do you love your brother?_

There was malice in those written words, a promise of things to come, and it didn't take a hunter with near-perfect instincts to recognize that right away. All it took was a big brother who had a hell of a lot to lose.

Some_one_ had taken Sam, the note proved it.

No ghost or supernatural baddie would take the time to mind fuck.

Running both hands through his hair in a fit of complete and total misery, Dean sat down heavily onto the edge of Sam's bed. The kid's duffle bag was sitting at the foot, neat and untouched…his shaving kit was sitting beside the sink in the bathroom…their countless research texts were piled on the surface of the dining table, handwritten notes scattered all over the place.

_Sammy_ was all over the room and it was driving him insane.

_How much do you love your brother?_

He was running out of options and leads were practically non-existent. He'd last seen Sam alive in the back booth of the town's only bar, and that was it. That was all he had.

There was a reason that the younger Winchester brother did all the research; he was good at it, he loved it…the kid was like a damn bloodhound when it came to sniffing out all the facts. If Dean ever went missing, he'd want Sammy investigating it.

He couldn't help but feel incredibly useless knowing that his baby brother was missing and having absolutely no idea where to look next.

The ringing of his cell phone hardly even registered at first. Rubbing his tired and burning eyes, he leaned down from his perch on the bed and rummaged through an ever-growing pile of dirty clothes. He found his cell phone in the pocket of a pair of jeans and didn't even both checking the ID before flipping it open.

"Yeah."

"_Dean?"_

Dean let out a breath, his eyes slipping closed. "Bobby."

"_How're you doin'?"_

"Surviving."

He was _barely_ surviving, but he would never say it out loud—he didn't have to. Bobby didn't know him a quarter as well as Sam did, but it didn't take a genius to see that Dean was suffering. As much as he wanted to appear together he knew that he wasn't. It was a sort of pain that he couldn't hide. He didn't know how.

There was a small pause on the phone, as if Bobby had been thinking along the same lines. "_Look, uh…I wanted to let you know that I'm headin' out to meet you. I reckon you need all the help you can get findin' Sam."_

Dean sighed. "I appreciate the thought, Bobby, but I don't want you gettin' involved."

"_What the hell are you talkin' about?"_

"Whoever took Sam? It's not supernatural."

"_I know, you told me 'bout the note you got."_

"I don't want to drag you into something that might get crazy—"

"_I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that, boy."_

There was a fierce determination in the old man's voice and Dean recognized it right away. Bobby'd told them both a thousand times that they were practically family—"_family don't end with blood"—_and that had always been something that both brothers were resoundingly grateful for.

There were two people in the world that Dean went to when he needed help; the first was his little brother…the _only_ person that knew him better than he knew himself, the only person who accepted and understood the finer points of everything Dean Winchester…the second, was the old and stubborn hunter on the other end of the phone.

But if someone was pissed off and deranged enough to take Sam away from him, did he want to bring the only remaining family member he had into it?

Did he want Bobby to be there when he finally tracked the sorry bastard down and put a bullet in his head?

"I gotta do this alone."

"_Dean—"_

"I'm gonna find him, Bobby."

Bobby couldn't miss the near snarl in those words.

"_I know you are, never doubted it. But let me come out there and help—two heads is better than one."_

Dean had had his fill.

"I'll call you later."

He snapped his phone closed without a second thought, cutting off Bobby's furious protests, and tossed it down next to him on the mattress.

It had struck him the night before just how much he _could_ be like his dad. Dean had never been obsessive when it came to hunting; sure it was what he did, he got a kick out of it and he was good at it, but for him it had never had that do-or-die feel to it like it had with his father.

His father locked himself in his motel room.

His father pinned photos, newspaper clippings, scribbled notes and research on the walls.

His father often didn't eat until the hunt was over and done with.

Dean _never_ did those things…but with Sam missing he seemed to revert back to the way he'd been _taught_ to be, as opposed to the way he usually was.

It was what he'd missed; it was what he _needed_, Sam slowing him down. It was one of the main reasons he'd made the trip to Palo Alto in the first place, effectively dragging the kid back into the hunt kicking and screaming.

Sam kept Dean in line…Dean kept Sam on his toes.

Not for the first time in the short time since Sam had gone missing, Dean wished miserably that he didn't need his little brother as much as he knew he did.

It was the worst kind of blasphemy—wishing he hadn't gone to Stanford, wishing he hadn't talked Sam into hitting the road again.

It had never crossed his mind until that very moment.

The darkened room seemed to almost constrict around him and Dean quickly shot to his feet, grabbing his jacket and car keys before practically tearing through the door.

It hadn't taken him long to run out of places to check, places to search. His normal routine had been to spend the night out in the woods, checking every single thicket, every single cave, and every single hole for signs of Sam.

And Sheila knew it.

He pushed his way into the small and homely diner that was only a few minutes walk from the motel parking lot and immediately made his way up to the counter.

"You look terrible, honey."

Dean lowered himself onto one of the stools and rubbed his eyes again. "Can't sleep."

Sheila made her way over, a mug in one hand and a coffee pot in the other. There was a flash of concern in her wise brown eyes. "How does a fresh roast beef sandwich sound?"

Over those three days Dean had quickly become convinced of one thing—that diner waitress, a tubby middle-aged mother with grey hairs and hard-earned calluses on her fingers, was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

She offered him empathy instead of sympathy…her coffee was some of the best he'd ever had, rivaled only by Sam's…and her sandwiches were thick and made with unmistakable warmth.

Sheila was absolutely gorgeous.

A quick glance at his watch—6:34pm—and Dean found himself swallowing hard.

Day three was coming to a painfully quick end.

"Uh…can I just have some of your world famous chicken noodle?"

She quirked an eyebrow. "You need more to eat than just soup, Dean."

He still wasn't used to hearing his real name spoken so fondly by a near stranger, but he'd worn himself out trying to lie. His _last_ name, however, was still a closely guarded secret. To the people of Milford, he was Dean Vester; big brother on a mission.

He tried to smile. "I think soup is all I'm up for tonight."

"You're going to make yourself sick."

Dean didn't say anything and after a few seconds Sheila moved away from him, heading towards the kitchen's window to place his order.

Truth was he already _was_ sick.

The last two nights had brought a whole new meaning to the term _dry heaves._

From his subtle surveillance when he'd first walked through the door, he saw that the diner was full of familiar faces. The older couple in the far booth came in every evening for pumpkin pie and coffee…the guy in the booth next to theirs was around Dean's age and was quite obviously a mechanic from the local body shop—if the grease smears on his over-alls were any indication…the two little boys that had made their way inside just ahead him were there for the enormous ice cream cones that Sheila gave them for free.

There was one face in the diner that he didn't recognize—a hard looking guy at the very back. He was nursing what looked like a cup coffee, an empty plate beside him with the remnants of steak and mashed potatoes. He'd served time somewhere rough; Dean could tell, he knew the type.

He barely noticed when a mammoth bowl of steaming chicken noodle soup was placed in front of him, complete with spoon and crackers. The smell eventually stirred something in his senses because he turned his head, locking eyes with Sheila.

Her eyes were pinched and full of worry.

Dean once again tried to smile. "Thanks, sweetheart."

As she always did when he bestowed the endearment on her, a light pink tint spread into her cheeks. "You're sure you're alright?"

"I'm ok."

"Just make sure you eat it all, you hear me?"

There was a definite stern warning to her voice and he simply stirred the soup lightly, causing more steam to rise. "With you soundin' like that, I'd be stupid not to."

"Please be serious."

"I _am_ bein' serious."

Sheila eyed him strictly for a moment and then reached over and patted his hand in reassurance.

He tried like hell to keep from pulling his hand away and he was almost happy when she left him alone.

Eating the soup was incredibly slow going—every spoonful made him feel ill. In those three days, he still hadn't managed to keep a decent meal down. He remembered Sam sticking to soda crackers the last time he'd had the flu, saying over and over again that they were the only things that didn't upset his stomach. And so in a truly un-Dean move, he went to the nearest store and bought a box.

And dammit, he couldn't keep those down either.

He knew that he had to find a way to get some nutrition. He'd start losing vital muscle mass if he didn't…

The stool beside him suddenly squeaked and there was the tell-tale sound of someone settling themselves into a new seat. Dean looked over out of the corner of his eye, his gaze falling on the face of the man he'd looked at earlier—the ex-con.

Who was also a hunter, if the complicated anti-possession symbol tattooed on his bicep was anything to go by.

Dean instantly felt himself stiffen.

"You John Winchester's boy?"

The man's voice was as rough as the rest of him and Dean narrowed his eyes. "Well that depends on who's askin'."

"You know that's as good as a _yes_, right?"

"You know you're interrupting my dinner, right?"

The man seemed to find the smart-ass that lived in Dean's mouth amusing because he snorted, shaking his head. "Wiseass. Just like your old man."

"What the hell do you want?"

He tilted his head to the side, leaning a fraction closure and speaking low enough so only Dean could hear. "I was wonderin'…how that brother of yours is doing."

And just like that, all depression and hopelessness disappeared.

It was replaced immediately with a burning fury.

He knew without a single doubt that he was facing the man who'd written that note—that one sentence that had haunted and plagued him since it was slid under their motel room door.

_How much do you love your brother?_

He mirrored the man's movement and leaned slightly closer, his voice coming out in a growl. "Where is my brother."

It wasn't a question. It was a demand.

And it was completely disregarded.

"You've been lookin' for him now for, what…three days? You startin' to wonder if he's dead yet?"

"I'm gonna kill you myself, you know that, right?"

The man smirked. "You kill me, how are you gonna find _Sammy_?"

"I'll find him."

"Right, 'cause you always do?" He pulled back only slightly and raised a hand, motioning to Sheila. "Can I get a cup of coffee, Sheila?"

She nodded, smiling warmly. "Sure thing, Jake."

Jake leaned closer to Dean again, speaking in such a matter-of-fact voice that the Winchester was barely seeing straight. "This is how it is. You want your brother back, you gotta tell me what I wanna know—"

"Yeah? And what's that?"

"I wanna know about Sam's visions."

The words were like a shot to the solar plexus and, for a moment, Dean had to fight to draw breath.

It was one of his worst fears realized; backlash for Sam because of his visions. They'd spent weeks trying to figure them out and get used to them and in their own way they'd been making progress. It was just another facet of who they were…another secret to guard and keep.

Along with the other ten thousand the Winchester family had as a whole.

Dean nearly snarled again. "I don't know what you're talkin' about—"

"The more you lie, the less time Sam's got."

_Those_ words had the desired effect—Dean fell silent.

A small piece of paper was slid across the counter. Jake pointed to it. "Be at that address tonight. Ten o'clock."

"Or what?"

"Sam dies."

Dean swallowed hard, his eyes flickering down to the scribbled address—_225 W High Street._ His gaze flashed upwards again, locking with Jake's.

"Be there tonight, answer a couple questions and then…_maybe_…we'll tell you where your brother is."

"_We_?"

The bastard simply smiled.

The past three days suddenly sped through Dean's mind—the worry, the panic, the intense guilt he felt at leaving his little brother alone in the first place. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd dropped the _big brother ball_ over the years and the fact that he'd done it so spectacularly that time didn't exactly help his temper.

It pleased Dean that the asshole never saw it coming.

He was off his stool and on his feet in a near split second; grabbing the back of Jake's muscular neck, he slammed him face-first into the counter top. He savored the sound of the man's nose breaking.

After days of utter helplessness, it was invigorating.

He ignored the shocked murmuring of the diner's other patrons and leaned in close to whisper venomously in Jake's ear through gritted teeth. "You better hope that my brother is ok. 'Cause if he's not, you'll be _beggin'_ for a bullet by the time I get through with you."

Jake very slowly raised his head and there was another surge of pleasure as Dean took in the relentless flow of blood streaming from the man's crushed nose.

Sheila, who'd screamed at the sudden explosion, was staring at the two of them with wide and terrified eyes. Dean in his fury couldn't care less about the expression on the woman's face, but he reached into a pocket anyway and set a hundred dollar bill down next to his nearly untouched soup.

"Sorry 'bout the mess, Sheila."

He swiped up the address and left the diner, feeling a dozen or so pairs of eyes practically boring a hole into his back.

* * *

"_Y'know, I could just _kill_ you, boy—hangin' up on me like that. I've been tryin' to call you all friggin' night."_

"Yeah, well, I've been busy."

"_I don't care how busy you are. With what's goin' on over there, you keep in touch with me!"_

The cell phone was tucked snugly in the crook of Dean's neck, his hands busy as he methodically cleaned the silver Ruger.

The alarm clock on the bedside table announced in glowing red digits that it was nearly 9:15pm.

Only forty-five minutes.

"_So tell me again what this son of a bitch said?"_

He loaded the full clip back into the gun with a gratifying click, releasing the slide and loading a round into the chamber. "Name's Jake, didn't get a last name but he's a hunter."

"_Another hunter took your brother?"_

"Looks that way. Bastard was sayin' he has some questions for me—I tell him what he wants to know and they'll give me Sam."

"_When?"_

"Tonight. Ten o'clock."

"_Dammit, Dean." _There was a loud and dejected sigh. "_You wanna explain to me how _one hunter_ managed to get the drop on the kid?"_

Dean felt rage bloom in his chest and had to take a deep breath. Fact was? One hunter on his own was no match for his brother—not by a long shot. He'd taught Sam well. _"_He's not workin' alone, Bobby."

"_How do you know?"_

"I just know."

A pause. "_What does he wanna know?"_

"About Sam's visions."

The loud and resounding dead air coming through the phone was proof enough that Bobby knew how serious the situation was—seasoned hunters, who obviously had no problem acting wickedly, were using Sam as a lure and demanding an explanation of something that _Dean himself_ still wasn't even close to understanding.

Since the first time he'd witnessed one of the visions with his own eyes, he'd been looking into it—books on telekinesis and movement, paranormal psychology and extra sensory perception. He'd even gone as far as to grab a book on fortune telling and psychic intuition. He'd read practically _all_ of those books from cover to cover, whenever he could find free time away from Sam's curious gaze.

Dean's philosophy was simple—if he couldn't protect Sam with his strength, he was going to protect him with his knowledge instead.

Sometimes, big brothers needed to adjust their strategy and he'd never had any trouble doing that.

But right then? Defending Sam was going to have absolutely _nothing_ to do with knowledge and very little to do with strength.

Right then, defending Sam rested solely on how far Dean was willing to go. Was he willing to plug another hunter if it meant keeping his little brother safe? He knew without a doubt that he was _more_ than willing. After all, he'd killed for Sam before…the kid just didn't know it.

Yeah, definitely time for a little brutal violence to make himself feel better.

"_What're you gonna tell 'em?"_

"Nothin', if I can help it." Dean stood from the edge of his bed and reached back, stowing the gun in the waistband of his jeans.

"_You think Sam's ok? Wherever he is?"_

"I'd feel it if somethin' had happened, Bobby. Besides—" He grabbed a lethal looking silver knife from the table and examined the sharpness of the blade. "—wherever he is, he knows I'm comin' for him."

Bobby must've recognized the dangerous hint in the words. "_Dean, you be careful, y'hear me?"_ He cautioned. "_You don't know what you're walkin' into…what these guys are capable of—"_

"Trust me, whatever they're capable of? I can do better. I'll call you later." And in one swift movement he snapped his phone closed and grabbed his jacket, not even bothering to switch off the overhead light as he headed out to the car.

* * *

The Impala rumbled to a determined curb side stop, the driver cutting the engine and turning to glance out his window.

225 W High Street.

The old and decrepit looking building was located quite a ways down the main street of town, well away from the prying eyes of local residents. It was the type of place that kids would automatically assume was haunted and dare friends to go and investigate. It was the type of place that Dean knew well.

From where he'd parked the car he could easily make out the back end of a pick up truck sticking out from around the side of the building, as well as a few smaller vehicles, but it was far too dark to see the plates.

He pulled the key from the ignition and pushed his door open, stepping out into the cold night air. The weight of the Ruger was comforting against the small of his back and he took a deep breath.

He knew right away that Sam wasn't there.

Call it _big brother intuition_ and he'd had it since the day his brother was born. Even at the age of four, Dean had always been the one who'd known Sammy the best—he'd always been the first one to hear a baby crying in the middle of the night…he'd always been the one to know when he was hungry or in need of a fresh diaper…he always knew exactly where Sam's stuffed bear, Bunkie, was…and most importantly, he always knew where _Sammy_ was.

He'd always found his brother by _feeling _him, as opposed to _seeing_ him or hearing him.

And that intuition was telling him that the kid wasn't there.

He was somewhere _else_.

"Sam." Dean said the name as though it was a silent prayer and he sighed, his breath clouding in front of his face.

He had absolutely no idea what time it was as he started towards the building, but he didn't care. Three days without Sam was long enough.

He'd had enough of waiting.

The door was unlocked, which wasn't surprising, and he pushed it open, taking a quick look around. The first thing he noticed was the flicking of apparent candlelight coming from an open archway just to his right.

A long dark shadow suddenly appeared on the worn wooden flooring and then Jake was there in the doorway, his arms folded smugly across his chest. "You're right on time."

Dean felt his rage bubbling just below the surface and forced himself to take a deep breath. He made no reply as he crossed the floor, stepping through the archway and into the dim light.

He felt another bolt of pleasure at the truly horrendous state of Jake's face—two black eyes and a ridiculous splint across the bridge of his nose that was without a doubt homemade.

They were injuries he'd caused for his brother, and he was damn proud of them.

There were two other men in the room and there was no doubt whatsoever that they too were hunters. One of them—a fifty-something son of a bitch with black hair and a Chargers baseball cap—spoke suddenly. "That him?"

"Johnny's oldest—" Jake passed by and patted Dean's shoulder in what would've normally been thought of as a gesture of affection. All it did was make the red clouding Dean's vision more and more vivid.

He could feel the skin where Jake had touched him burn under his jacket.

"Doesn't look a _thing _like him."

"He's John's. Knew him when he was a kid."

"Yeah?"

"Sam, too."

"Y'know, as much as I love this memory lane crap," Dean spat sardonically, "I really don't."

The three soon-to-be-dead hunters stared at him with incredulous expressions on their faces, as if they were both expecting his impatience but also surprised by it.

It was the guy in the Chargers hat that got his wits back first. "Your dad know what a smartass you are?"

Dean nearly snarled, "Where do you think I get it from?"

There was a loud and boisterous laugh and the sound of clapping hands. Jake shook his head. "That attitude you got goin' isn't gonna do Sammy any good."

"You keep dangling that in front of me. How 'bout we just get this over with, 'cause I gotta be honest…I've had enough."

One of the other hunters—this guy was younger, around Sam's age, and wearing the rattiest pair of jeans Dean had ever seen—joined the conversation. "You got no right makin' demands."

Jake raised a placating hand. "Take it easy, Dwayne. Boy's just riled up is all." Motioning to a wooden chair sitting in the middle of the room, he said, "Sit yourself down, Dean."

"I'll stand."

"We're gonna be here a while. Get comfortable—"

Dean lost it right then and there.

"You son of a bitch, where the hell is my brother?"

"Buried alive."

It was incredible what just a few words, a few confidently spoken syllables could do. They could steal your breath as if it never even belonged to you. They could leave you standing numb and blind.

_How much do you love your brother?_

"W-what?"

Jake sighed, leaning back casually against the far wall. "I said..._buried_ _alive_. Pine box, the whole nine yards. Dug the hole myself this morning."

The numbness that filled Dean's chest was starting to be shoved aside and replaced with a blinding fury; he clenched his hands into tight fists to keep them from shaking. He could hear the rapid rush of blood in his ears as he intentionally gathered all of his strength in his right arm, just _waiting _for the right moment.

He knew he had a gun but a bullet would be too quick. Too fast. He wanted to feel his fists connect with their flesh…he wanted to _feel_ their bones break.

Jake's voice broke through like a sledgehammer.

"We wanna know about your brother's visions."

Then Dwayne's.

"We're guessin' he was born normal. So tell us what happened."

"Why should I tell you bastards a damn thing?" He looked from face to face. "What the hell gives you the right to take _my _brother? Who the hell do you think you are?"

"We're the only ones who know where your brother is buried, so watch your mouth."

"Dwayne—" Jake murmured in warning, sliding his gaze over to Dean. "Sam was a good hunter—like your daddy…like you—now he _is_ the supernatural. He's no better than what you hunt." He pushed himself from the wall and started circling Dean where he stood. "A demon, yellow eyes, killed your mom…in _your brother's nursery_. He was there for a reason, and now, the kid has _visions_?"

"You seem to know a lot about my family."

"Your _family_? Practically a legend in the hunting world."

"A _legend_?"

"Mary Elizabeth Winchester. Born, January 29th, 1954…died, November, 2nd, 1983. Sam's six month birthday. After she died John fell off the map, leaving Lawrence and raisin' you boys on the road—"

The third guy, with the baseball cap, interjected. "Seedy motels, cheap diners. The usual story for a newbie hunter raisin' kids on his own."

"Your daddy met Bobby Singer 'bout a year after that, picked up on things real quick. Started huntin' that demon first chance he got. You boys grew up fast—especially _you_. Started hunting when you were eleven, made your first kill at thirteen."

Baseball cap guy again. "You tried to keep Sam away from it as much as you could; lied to him about where you and your dad were spendin' your nights, even left him with Jim Murphy a couple times."

"You want us to keep goin' on from there or should we start on Stanford?"

"Just—" Dean raised a hand, his eyes slipping closed for the shortest second as if trying his damndest to process it all. He opened them again slowly, focusing on Jake. "What the hell are you tryin' to do here, huh? Rattle my cage? You think I'll just tell you everything you wanna know?"

"I think Sam's enough motivation for you to do that. He's been in that hole since just before noon today, if I were you I wouldn't waste any time."

Dean's mouth quirked dangerously. "I'm not tellin' you a damn thing, bumpkin."

Dwayne laughed as well, standing from his chair and striding threateningly across the floor. "You Winchesters are funny as hell—"

Once he was within two feet, Dean made his move.

The strength that had been building in his right arm was finally released as he pulled his hand back and threw a punch. Bones cracked and gave way under his fingers and the howl of pain that Dwayne gave was damn near euphoric.

When he hit the floor, the two other hunters also started forward.

Dean pulled his gun from the waistband of his jeans and his silver blade from inside his jacket in one flawless move—the knife was pressed against the skin of Jake's neck while the gun was aimed at the asshat with the ball cap.

Breathing heavily from fury, Dean tiled his head. "Am I still funny?"

Jake swallowed hard, eyes focused on the blade.

Dean noticed the hidden fear in the man's eyes when he realized that the hand holding the weapon was as solid as a rock…no tremors meant there would be no hesitation.

"You think this is gonna help you find Sam?"

"I _know_ it will."

"How's that?"

"Because as self-righteous as you assholes are, you don't wanna die." Dean pointedly pressed the blade into Jake's skin; a little droplet of blood appeared and he hissed, "You're not _ready_ to die."

Jake's eyes immediately darkened. "I don't think you got the balls."

Without any pause or without taking his eyes away from Jake's, Dean swung the gun down and pulled the trigger, firing a shot into the third hunter's thigh.

He let out a completely inhuman scream; whether in surprise or pain, Dean didn't know or care. He fell to the floor, blood quickly soaking through the denim of his jeans.

The gun was immediately moved into Jake's line of sight, the smell of gunpowder overpowering.

Both men totally ignored the two other hunters writhing pathetically on the floor.

"I'm gonna count to five and you better've put those weapons down—"

"No, I'm gonna count to _three_." Dean leaned closer, his face inches away from Jake's. "I wanna know where Sam is."

"And if I don't tell you?"

"Your friends are gonna be scooping up what's left of you with a shovel."

For a few moments, there were only moans of pain…limbs smacking against the old hardwood as the two injured men rolled around. Dean and Jake simply stared at each other.

Eventually, the Winchester had had enough of the heavy silence. "Hey Dwayne—" He glanced over at the fallen hunter. "You want a hole in your leg to match Jake's _other_ bitch?"

Whatever color that had been left in the kid's face drained away and he shook his head, while at the same time trying to staunch the flow of blood coming from his brutally broken nose.

"You wanna tell me where Sam is?"

When Dwayne shook his head again, Dean swung the gun around and re-aimed it right at the kid's face. "Tell me where he is, Dwayne."

Jake audibly swallowed hard. "That kid won't tell you a damn thing."

Maybe it was the fact that his face was broken.

Or maybe it was the fact that one of his friends was lying there with an angry hole in his body made by one of Dean's bullets.

_Or_ maybe it was the fact that Dean now had that gun aimed right between his eyes.

Whatever it was, Dwayne squeezed his eyes shut and spoke around the blood. "26 Chestnut Road, there's an empty house—" He swallowed thickly. "Go 'round back. He's buried in the yard."

Dean, not missing a beat, moved his gaze back to Jake. "He tellin' the truth?" The older man stayed completely stoic so Dean pressed the knife even further into the skin of his neck; he groaned and immediately started to tremble. "Is he tellin' the truth?"

He swallowed hard again. "I'm gonna kill you."

_Yahtzee._

The smirk that came to Dean's face was anything but humorous. "You ever come after me or my brother again…I'll make you wish to God your mother had swallowed, you understand?"

Pulling the knife away, Dean gave Jake a quick and hard shove to the shoulder.

The somewhat stunned hunter fell ass-backwards to the hardwood and by the time he started cursing and yelling, Dean was already starting his car.

* * *

The Impala roared around the corner and onto Chestnut Road, tires squealing as she righted herself on the slippery asphalt.

It had rained a little bit earlier that afternoon and the slight drizzle that was hitting the windshield sent worry up and down Dean's spine.

Sam was _buried_.

As soil absorbs water, it gets heavier.

Pine is a weak wood.

The image of the box collapsing in on itself with Sam still inside…

Dean hit the gas.

He couldn't see the house numbers in the darkness so he counted instead, eventually slamming both boots down on the brake when he reached number twenty-six.

He didn't spare a second thought, didn't look around or take in his surroundings. He simply threw open the drivers door and stumbled out, grabbing the shovel, duffel bag and blanket he'd stashed in the passenger seat.

And before he even knew it he was running.

Over the sidewalk, up onto the grass, and around the side of the house. There was an old chain link fence and Dean threw the shovel and bag over before effortlessly vaulting over himself, landing with lethal grace as his boots practically sank into the sodden grass.

He'd only taken a few quick steps when he laid eyes on it.

Two wooden planks nailed together in the form of a cross, pushed down into the dirt at the head of a patch of land recently churned and slightly raised.

It was a grave.

Bile and unstoppable panic rose up in Dean's throat and he took off across the yard, dropping the blanket and duffel bag to the ground.

The shovel cut into the wet ground easily and it only took a few minutes for his muscles to start quivering and burning from the effort of moving mud.

_He's been in that hole since just before noon today…_

_I wouldn't waste any time._

_How much do you love your brother?_

Dean increased his pace, grunting with the weight and nearly crying with anticipation.

A thousand and one thoughts sped through his mind; what if he opened the box and Sam wasn't breathing?...what if he opened the box and Sam was already dead?

What if he dug and found nothing, learning once it was too late that Dwayne and Jake had lied to him?

Either scenario would end the same way—three hunters, lying dead and bleeding…their last thoughts having been how they wished they'd never set eyes on the Winchesters.

"Sammy—"

His boots slipped and slid in the muck and he fought to keep himself upright. Every second seemed like an hour…every breath was pain…every scoop of mud brought him closer and closer to his purpose.

The blade of the shovel hit something solid and Dean nearly cried out, tossing the shovel up onto the grass and dropping to his knees. The mud was cold as he swept it aside with his bare hands, ignoring the numbness and the small jagged rocks that cut at the skin of his fingers.

He had one thought in his mind.

_Sammy._

The worn surface of the box was soon visible and Dean swallowed hard, pushing himself up to the head of the makeshift coffin. "Sam!" His voice was rough and hoarse from the cold but he wasn't even close to caring. "Sammy!"

Fury nearly took him over again when he couldn't get his fingers under the lid of the box—it'd been nailed shut and no matter what strength he had, it wasn't nearly enough.

For a moment, he started to panic.

He couldn't get the box open. Sam was _right there_, and Dean couldn't get to him.

Without even forming a coherent thought he reached forward and hurriedly grabbed the shovel, thrusting the blade underneath the lid of the box and straining as he tried to pry it open.

He could hear the nails groaning under the pressure and, slowly, the lid wooden plank started to rise.

"Sam!"

The silence was the loudest silence he'd ever heard and all it did was spur him on. With one enormous burst of strength, he fully pried it open, tossing the shovel aside and pushing it further with his hands.

And there, lying completely still and as pale as death, was Sam.

Dean's tongue stalled out of pure upset but he decided to let his hands do the talking for him. He reached down, one hand sweeping aside Sam's drenched bangs while the other immediately went to his neck to find a pulse.

There were a few painful moments where he felt nothing, but then it was there—a weak and thready heartbeat underneath his fingertips.

Relief washed over him when he finally heard a gasp and saw Sam's chest rise. A round of coughs followed. Dean began breathing deliberately, slowly in and out as if willing his brother to do the same. Sam's coughing eventually slowed and assumed the smooth rhythmic breathing of his older brother's. Through it all, Sam's eyes remained closed, his body unconscious.

"Good boy."

The drive was a blur, fast and rough—one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over the seat to Sam lying in the back and holding his hand—neither willing to relinquish its important duty. The flashing lights of an ambulance signaled the hospital's emergency entrance, and Dean screeched to a halt just behind it.

It took less than sixty seconds for the two paramedics milling about outside the ER doors to help get Sam out of the car and onto a stretcher. Once inside the hospital, it took less than ten seconds to get a doctor's attention…and then less than twenty seconds for them to wheel Sam away, leaving Dean horrified and alone in the busy waiting room.

Faces stared at him in curiosity and shock as he stood there, watching his brother disappear behind a trauma room door.

He knew that he must've been a complete sight; almost entirely covered in mud and muck, face pale and hazels that were brimming with unshed tears.

They were tears bred completely from anger and heart-stopping panic.

Dean had learned the hard way back when they were kids that there was no waiting room in existence that was large enough for him to effectively pace in. They were all too full, too small, to _lonely_ without Sam.

He eventually sat himself down in one of the countless uncomfortable plastic chairs and hung his head in his hands.

He'd also learned that waiting didn't get any easier with age.

"_You boys are ok?"_

"The doctors are in with Sam now—got all the paperwork done, haven't heard anything yet."

"_What 'bout you?"_

Dean leaned heavily against the side of the payphone, letting out a weary breath. "What _about_ me?"

"_What the hell d'you mean, what about you? Are you ok?"_

"Yeah, I'm fine—" Tired hazel eyes traveled distractedly to the door leading to the exam rooms. "Christ, what the hell's takin' 'em so long?"

"_No news is good news."_

"Yeah, screw that."

"_Let the doctors do what they gotta do, Dean, don't go harassin' anyone."_ He let out another breath, listening to the forced calm and rationale in Bobby's voice. "_What ended up happening tonight?"_

"One got his jaw and nose broken, one got a bullet, and the other learned a lesson."

There was a slight pause, and then, _"There a body to take care of?"_

The gratitude that Dean felt at those words was overwhelming; Bobby was actually _offering_ to help him…_offering_ to help him take care whatever was left over from his rage.

He'd wanted to kill those men, _all three of them_, for what they'd done to his brother. Punishments when it came to Sam were swift and violent. It had been that way for as long as he could remember.

Watching out for Sam was his job and he'd always been good at his job.

He'd always known how to protect Sam. _Always_. Since the moment he was born, Dean had always _known_ what he needed…_known_ what needed to be done.

It honestly _was_ a big brother intuition, and just like Dean himself, it'd gotten more and more unforgiving as the years had passed.

He swallowed hard and shook his head. "No, nothing."

"_You sure?"_

"Yeah, I'm sure."

There was a heavy sigh of relief.

"_Just look after your brother, now. He's gonna need you playin' at a hundred when the time comes." _Then tentatively, _"You sure you don't want me to come out there?"_

"Family for Sam Vester?"

The voice rang out in the busy waiting room.

The tall and lanky doctor that had taken Sam when they'd first entered the hospital was standing there with a chart in his hands and Dean nearly threw up at the very sight of him.

He muttered a quick and rushed goodbye to Bobby and slammed the phone down, waving a hand at the doctor as he quickly rounded the group of chairs.

"Dean? I'm Dustin Cook, your brother's physician."

He nodded, swallowing hard. "How's Sam?"

Cook sent him a small reassuring smile. "He's doing fine."

Dean, for just a second, felt his vision blur.

_He's doing fine._

Sammy was ok.

The doctor seemed to understand the expression on the Winchester's face because he smiled again, patting Dean's shoulder gently. After a moment, he motioned for Dean to follow him and the two quickly walked through the large door separating the ER from the waiting area.

"You mentioned before that he'd been buried?"

"In a pine box, yeah."

The doctor shook his head. "And you said he'd been gone almost three days?"

"Just over three days."

They walked quickly past a bustling nurses' station; ringing phones, squeaky shoes, the beeping of heart monitors…Dean's own heartbeat was loud in his ears, drowning out everything but the doctor's voice.

"Hypothermia is a problem, so is malnutrition. We've got him hooked up to a few different IVs, just to make sure that he gets all the nutrients he needs—"

"He had some rigid bruising on his right side?"

Cook looked impressed. "You sound like you've been through this before."

Dean didn't even comment, and after a moment of silence Cook continued. "It looks like he took a few kicks to the stomach. I've ordered an ultra-sound and once we get those results back, we'll talk about where to go next."

_Three freakin' days_.

_How much do you love your brother?_

"But…I mean, he's gonna be ok, right?"

Cook finally came to a slow stop beside a closed exam room door. He released a breath and folded his arms loosely across his chest. "Physically, he's going to be fine. Nothing a few good meals and some rest won't cure. _Mentally_?" His shoulders dropped slightly. "Your brother was buried alive. You said he was missing for three days; as far as we can tell, he was _not_ buried for that amount of time."

Dean knew that already. Jake had told him as much.

_He's been in that hole since just before noon today…_

"He doesn't have any soars that would indicate lying on a hard surface in the same position for thirty-six hours. We did find several slivers in his fingers, presumably from—"

"Trying to claw his way out."

Dean's voice broke slightly and Cook's face softened in reaction. "We have to watch those wounds carefully for infection. I've already gotten him started on antibiotics. He was definitely hit in the end, he has a concussion."

He couldn't stand it anymore.

"Can I see him?"

Cook nodded and motioned towards the closed door. "I'll check in with you a little later after I get the ultra-sound scheduled."

The two men shared a quick glance and as soon as the doctor turned his back, Dean quietly and carefully let himself into Sam's room.

The first thing he was aware of was the light beeping of a heart monitor.

The second thing was the silhouette of his little brother cast against the light blue privacy curtain.

He swallowed hard and made his way around the curtain, his tired eyes falling on Sam immediately. The kid was covered in blankets and surrounded by pillows, two IV needles in each arm; he could give a geriatric a run for his money with the amount of IV poles he had surrounding his bed. Both his hands were wrapped tightly in white bandages and his face was pale.

Dean ran a hand down his face and forced a breath through his fingers.

How in the _hell_ could one person screw up so badly?

Sure, he'd fucked up in some spectacularly horrible ways over his twenty-six years, but never, _never_, as bad as he had when he'd left Sam alone in that bar.

Sam didn't move an inch as he approached, finally coming to a slow stop right next to the bed. The fingers of his left hand curled almost convulsively around the cold metal sidebar.

"The crap we get ourselves into, huh?" He found himself brushing Sam's overly long bangs away from his eyes, something he'd rarely done, not since the kid was little.

It was painful to pull his hand away from his brother; unbearable to severe contact that couldn't believe he'd been without since they were teenagers.

Feeling exhausted, completely deflated, Dean slowly set himself down into the chair beside the bed with a quiet whimper.

_How much do you love your brother?_

* * *

"So…what d'you remember?"

Sam coarsely cleared his throat. "Not too much." He very slowly shuffled himself across the mattress, bringing himself closer to Dean, who was sitting loyally and protectively at his bedside.

It was sometimes astonishing how childlike Sam could be when sick or sore. It brought out the true little brother still inside the man.

"Left the bar a few minutes after you did."

"You didn't see 'em coming?"

Sam slowly shook his head. "Made it all the way back to the hotel before they moved in on me."

"Who moved first?"

"Jake. Hit me with the butt of a rifle—"

Dean was already furious as he sat there in his chair, clenching his fists to keep his hands from shaking.

_That explains the concussion._

"I hit the asphalt. Managed to get a leg up and kick one of them, but I couldn't get off the ground. They were on me so damn fast."

"The three of them?"

"There were more than three, Dean. There had to be."

"Dwayne, Jake and the jag-off in the Chargers hat." Dean ran a hand down his face. "I only met three."

The expression that crossed Sam's face at that moment, at that realization, was as clear as day to his older brother.

Hell, he'd said the words to Bobby himself—there weren't many people that could take on a Winchester and come out of it the victor. They'd both seen their fair share of bar fights. Dean had been thrown through countless windows, hit _with_ pool cues and hit _by_ jealous boyfriends. Sammy got into fights only because Dean did.

Six-foot-four and the damn kid still followed his big brother blindly.

Three days before Sam had been taken down by three hunters and the butt end of a rifle.

And he was embarrassed.

"Sammy—" Dean sighed and sat up, dropping his boots from the end table they'd been propped on. "Jesus, man, it was _three other hunters_—"

"Could they've taken _you_ down?"

"After hittin' me with the butt of a rifle, you bet your ass they could've."

Sam's eyes slipped closed for just a second. "Dean, I've seen you take worse hits than that—"

"You wanna know the difference?" In complete seriousness, he said, "All the times I took those hits? I had _you_ there backin' me up. You were on your own, Sam. You did good."

He snorted quietly. "Yeah. I did _real_ good. Got myself locked in a basement cellar for two days then thrown in a pine box."

"Sam—"

"Dad would be proud, huh?"

The breath froze in Dean's chest and his eyes widened in both anger and disbelief; anger that the kid thought so low of himself…and disbelief that he'd actually brought up their father in the middle of an already crappy situation.

Sam locked gazes with him with eyes that were impossibly sad and whatever anger that was stowed away completely disappeared.

"I don't want you thinkin' crap like that…you hear me?"

Sam merely shook his head and turned away, half-burying his face into his pillow.

"Sam. Hey." He reached over and tapped his brother's arm. "Look at me."

When Sam was hurting physically, or even emotionally, Dean knew he needed a firm voice to gain his attention, but tender words to push away the pain…and depending on the severity, maybe a few wiseass remarks to distract him from everything else.

Sam had disobeyed their father's orders all the time…he never _once_ disobeyed Dean's.

Not when it mattered most.

Once their eyes locked again, Dean continued, "You remember…you'd just turned fifteen? We were out in those crazy woods outside Burnsville? Me and Dad were huntin' a banshee?"

Sam nodded slowly. "Yeah, that was the time I fell outta the tree."

"You remember _why_ you fell?"

"'Cause dad told me he needed a distraction—"

Dean smiled fondly. "Yeah, that's right—"

"—and him tellin' me that made me so nervous, I lost my footing on the branch." Sam deadpanned. "I didn't do it on purpose, Dean."

The smile very slowly melted away from the older brother's face. "You _told_ me it was on purpose."

"I lied."

Dean blinked stupidly. "But…I was _mad_ at you."

"For jumping out of a tree on purpose, yeah."

"But it was an accident." Realization slowly dawned and Dean frowned in complete and utter annoyance. "So I should've been mad at you for being _clumsy_ instead of suicidal?"

Sam made a truly pitiful _'oh, come on'_ face.

"You just stomped on my whole point there, Sam, thanks a lot."

"What point?"

He sighed dramatically. "Well there's no point in talkin' about it _now_. I mean, I thought you did it on purpose, dude—"

"Dean."

After a second, he somehow managed to organize his face back into seriousness.

"Do you have any idea how proud he was of you after that? He thought you were a friggin' idiot…but he was proud." He paused, looking slightly embarrassed. "_I_ was proud."

"You _yelled_ at me for an _hour_, man."

"Yeah, because you scared the shit outta me. Seein' my kid brother go sailing out of a twenty foot maple threw me the hell off—"

Dean's voice was obnoxiously matter-of-fact in an effort to make the kid smile.

And he was rewarded with a display of heart-breakingly familiar dimples.

"Sammy, I don't want you thinkin' about dad…or about what I could've done. You think about what _you_ did."

The two locked eyes and Dean was sure that if Sam's gaze got any softer, he'd change spontaneously into a marshmallow.

He knew that he had to bring it up. He knew that the doctor was right and that Sam would need someone to be there, someone to talk to. Dean _knew_ that if he traveled back to 26 Chestnut Road, he'd find bloody fingernail marks in the lid of the pine box.

Just at the thought of it he could feel adrenalin course through his veins, every single cell in his body buzzing with a furious energy.

In his head, he could hear Sam's hysterical screams.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, willing the sounds to go away. He couldn't stand them. "How're your hands feelin'?"

"_Can't_ feel 'em. Guess the meds are working."

He cleared his throat. "Look, uh…if you need to talk about anything—" Sam slowly turned his head, his enormous eyes focused on the older man's face. Dean, in response, nervously cleared his throat again. "You know that I'll listen."

There were those dimples again. "Thanks, Dean."

He couldn't help but send an answering smile. "Welcome."

If he said that walking into the room to find Sam sitting on the edge of his bed, fully dressed and awake, wasn't the greatest freakin' thing he'd ever seen? Well, it would be the world's biggest understatement.

The kid sat there like a blown up version of his five-year-old self, swinging his legs back and forth as he looked around the room with mild interest.

Dean knocked a knuckle against the door frame. As soon as Sam looked up, he said, "You almost ready to hit the road?"

"Guess so."

"You guess so?"

Sam ran a hand through his too-long hair, looking, surprisingly enough, completely miserable.

Dean was instantly concerned, a frown settling in on his tired features. "Sammy?" He approached the bed, swatting his brother's knee affectionately as soon as he was close enough. "What's up?"

"Where are we gonna go?"

"I dunno. Figured we could head to Bobby's, spend a couple days there. He's about ready to kill me, seein' as how I've practically ignored him for four days."

Judging from the look that crossed the kid's face, that wasn't the answer he'd been looking for.

Concern now. "Sam, what's goin' on with you?"

He let out a small and embarrassed laugh, un-shed tears filling his eyes. "It's uh…it's safe here." Sam said finally, his voice quiet and sad. "_I'm_ safe here."

"You're safe with _me_." Dean said firmly.

Truer words had never been spoken…

At least not before Dean had left Sam alone in that bar.

He swallowed hard, ducking his head to see into Sam's heavy-lidded eyes. "Sam? You know that, right?"

"Yeah Dean, I know that." Sam smiled a very, _very_ small smile. "Never doubted it."

"Then what's the problem? We'll get back in the car, hit the road. Bags are already packed—"

"Is it stupid that I'm scared to leave the room?"

Dean felt himself nearly deflate at the small voice coming from the man sitting in front of him.

In his experience, he'd never known Sam to be afraid of anything. The kid faced spirits, demons and monsters that only existed in nightmares, and he faced those things head on, not even understanding what the phrase _half-assed_ meant.

To hear him say he was afraid right then was like a shot to the stomach.

Dean looked down to the floor, feeling a shame the likes of which he'd never felt before.

"No Sammy…it's not stupid." He raised a calloused but warm hand, curling it tenderly around the back of Sam's neck. "But you can't sit in here forever."

"No, I know that." Sam blinked, and then, "Hey…what happened to those guys?"

"The three asshats?"

The kid nodded, stupid hair flopping.

Dean sighed. "One can't walk…one can't chew…and the last one, I may or may not have insulted his mother."

A burst of laughter had both men smiling and Sam shook his head. "His mother, huh?"

"Yeah—somethin' about swallowing."

"Dean, that's kinda gross, man."

"Yeah, well, the bastard deserved a lot more than that."

And there was that damn 'soft as a marshmallow' look again. "Thanks."

"For what?"

"For comin' to get me." Sam's shoulder made gentle contact with Dean's—an invitation. "And for not getting yourself into trouble."

Dean returned the contact—invitation accepted.

"Me? Gettin' into trouble?"

Sam obviously found the humor in the smirk that was on Dean's face because he chuckled again. "Trying to look innocent isn't you, Dean."

"No, that's right, that's all _you_…right, Sammy?"

For some reason, a strong desire came over him at that moment; a desire to be _honest_…a desire to tell the whole truth.

Dean knew that he was a man with a murderous rage buried deep down under his skin. It had burst his barriers only a few times in his life, and those times always had something to do with Sam—whether it be fighting off bullies, fighting off monsters or hunting down the unlucky bastards that stupidly decided to mess with him.

With Jake, that rage had been right in the forefront.

He'd felt it in his own eyes.

"I could've killed them, y'know."

Sam snapped his head up, eyes widening slightly at the sudden confession. The kid didn't say a word though—he knew Dean well enough to know that once Dean _started_ confessing, he just needed to sit still and quiet. Offering silent support.

Dean silently appreciated it.

"I had my gun, I had my knife—" He breathed a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "I shot one, it would've taken me less than a second to turn on the others."

Sam interjected quietly. "But you didn't."

"I wanted to."

"But you didn't."

God, Dean loved that kid so much.

But he knew everything he needed to know…

Jake Milligan—Denton, Texas.

Dwayne Lee—Beaufort, South Carolina.

Max Grant—San Diego, California.

He knew their addresses, the cars they drove, and the bars they went to.

He knew their closest relatives, their meeting places, and how often they met.

The murderous rage that had nearly exploded from him in that room with those three men? They hadn't even scratched the surface. Dean had killed for his brother before and there would be no hesitation if he had to do it again. The only question was whether or not Jake and his buddies would be stupid enough to test him.

In the meantime, they would heal. They'd go through the motions and try like hell to get the cosmic '_kidnap me'_ sign off of Sam's back.

But they would always be ready—Dean and his rage would always be ready.

_How much do you love your brother?_

They were words that would haunt him the rest of his life; curvy handwriting on a stark white piece of paper. Those words had been sinister and disturbing, but all they'd done was remind Dean Winchester that he was an older brother with a definite purpose.

God help the next bastard that spotted that 'kidnap me' sign…

Dean had held back once.

The next time someone threatened his Sammy?

The clip would be empty and the knife would be bloody.

_END_


	2. C and D

**Author's Note:** Hey all! Ok, so here's entry number 2! Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed and alerted this story! I can't tell you how much I appreciate it!

**Disclaimer:** Yeah, right, don't make me laugh.

* * *

**C is for Castiel**

* * *

Human emotions are difficult.

Fierce, brutal, and magnificent.

The complete worship of a mother looking into the tired eyes of her newborn child. The devotion of a man to a woman after fifty years of companionship. Sparks of lust and heat of fury, coursing through veins like scalding hot water. Passion, pleasure and pain.

It's what insanity is bred from, I know that now.

For two thousand years I've remained impartial—emotionless and detached. I've watched wars begun and decided on the edge of a knife. Lives lost in one single solitary second. And I ask myself, _what is the intention?_ Peace? Wealth? Happiness for all? It's merely evidence that humans live by their emotions which does nothing but bring about disaster.

Does that make emotion a positive thing? Does it deserve to be sought after? Defended? Protected? Would the human race be better off without it?

For two thousand years I've remained impartial.

It was two brothers.

Two men—two humans—which I was all of a sudden responsible for. Two people that treasured one another more than any others I had ever seen.

It was them that made me want to ask questions.

And it was them that made me doubt.

It was them that made me _feel._

Even after all this time, I can't help but watch them. Can't help but suffer and think as they do. Dean especially. I don't know what it is about him that has me so captivated. Perhaps it's how he views the world—worthy of fighting for but broken. Or maybe it's how he views his brother—the core of his existence but also the largest source of his pain. His complete refusal to acknowledge fault in those he loves, even though those people are few.

Some would call that denial. Others would call it weakness.

I don't view it as either nor have I ever.

Dean Winchester's _love_ for his brother is the most brutal of all. It's fierce in its completeness and I've come to realize that it's entirely blind. When Dean looks at Sam, he doesn't see a demon-blood infected creature...he sees a six year old child. I can only hope that that hallucination isn't his downfall.

Because if it is, I don't know if I'm powerful enough to pull him back from the edge.

I'd been to Hell only once before that moment.

Back at that time, I remember telling myself that unless I absolutely had to I would never go back.

The heat. The endless rivers of bubbling blood. The tortured screams.

It was a complete cesspool, filled with death, filth and agony.

The battle had begun only seconds before. My brothers and sisters were fighting their way through the upper levels. Black demon smoke clouded the air thickly and I could hear the shrieks of Latin amid the crashes of thunder and flashes light—demons versus angels…heaven versus hell.

All of it was for me.

A distraction. An opportunity.

I looked for him frantically, moving through the darkened corridors. Tortured souls lined the walls and filled the rooms, reaching out to me through the bars of their cells with cracked and bloody hands. They moaned and screeched. Some twitching while other's remained completely still. I could feel their misery threatening to close in on me and I increased my pace, rounding one last corner…

…and there he was.

He was shirtless.

Skin pale white with blood smeared across his chest, arms and face.

There was a smile on his lips—a smile that I'm never going to forget—as he looked down at the young female that was strapped to the table in front of him. She was crying and screaming for mercy, begging him to let her go. There was no reaction in his eyes. He simply reached down and grabbed a razor, moving it to the skin of her arm with a lethal grace that terrified even me.

Just before the blood-crusted blade made contact with her skin, I grabbed him, wrapping my fingers around his upper arm and pulling with every ounce of strength I had.

I felt the blisters rise on his skin. I could feel his fury, his confusion.

I could hear Alistair, his deadened black eyes flashing at us in the flickering light.

I could hear the Devil himself screaming my name.

"_It's about time! I've been screamin' myself hoarse out here for about two and a half hours now."_

Panic.

Heartbreak.

Complete and utter defeat.

He was looking to me for help for the very first time and my response to him was short and to the point.

"_Dean…I can't."_

There was _nothing_ I wanted more than to intervene. There was _nothing_ I wanted more than to show him that his trust was well-earned and well-deserved.

Since I'd pulled him from his pedestal in the middle of hell's flames, he'd done nothing but listen to the woes of my brothers, my sisters, and myself. The end of the world was quickly approaching and because of _his_ actions…because of _his_ weaknesses and _his_ choices, we were at war.

I could see the guilt in his eyes. In fact, even now it's still there…as raw and irate as it had been the day I'd first told him of his involvement in the Apocalypse, as he lay sore and broken in a hospital bed.

But alongside the guilt and the anger, there is also an astonishing strength; a determination to achieve the impossible. It's always been there, since the very beginning…only faltering on occasion, but never completely disappearing.

Dean Winchester is stronger than I am.

And I've known it since the first moment I'd set my eyes on him.

He had no choice but to trust me, and I stood there and lied to his face.

I continually ask myself what it is we're doing here.

If our goal is to intentionally begin the Apocalypse, than what _exactly_ is it that we're doing?

What is the point of it? _Any_ of it?

There are angels that view the Earth as a catastrophe just waiting to happen—so many different people, so many different creations, so many different ideas and values. How can they all _possibly_ co-exist in such a small space? Then…there are angels that look at the Earth, at mankind, and wonder how powerful God must truly be to have created something to complex, and simultaneously, so beautiful.

I find myself lost somewhere in the middle.

I am in that position because I know myself to be different.

I live vicariously through a human man, and because of that I've experienced countless human feelings and emotions—anger…humor…relaxation…love.

It was Dean Winchester that first made a smile erupt on my face…it was Dean Winchester that first made me laugh.

It was Dean Winchester that made me rebel.

After thousands of years simply following blindly, it was _one human_ that made me doubt all that I was taught to believe. He made me realize that most of what I knew was built on lies and misunderstandings that no one above me bothered to correct. And because he made me realize that, without any bias or intention, it made me trust him all the more.

I would follow Dean Winchester through the gates of Hell.

I'd been there once with him, and I know that if I was faced with the opportunity to return at his side I wouldn't hesitate.

He relies on honesty more so than some of the angels I've fought wars with.

And at this point in time, honesty and the ability to achieve the impossible is _exactly_ what the world needs.

_END_

* * *

**D is for Dean**

* * *

_July 23rd, 2007_

_10 Months_

* * *

I didn't realize until today how lucky I am.

I know pretty much how and when I'm gonna die. Most people don't. It's what they're scared of.

It's one of life's greater mysteries, isn't it? _Death_. People spend their entire freakin' lives worrying about it, planning for it…writing wills and talking to lawyers who don't give a rat's ass about the person sitting on the other side of their desk. Just the heavy check they'll be droppin' when everything's said and done.

See, me? I don't really have to deal with any of that crap.

I'm not worried about it. It was my choice to sign my own death sentence and every time I see Sammy smile, every time I see him crack open a book and hunker down into geekishness, I'm reminded that it was all worth it.

The _planning_ is somethin' I'm doing on my own—I opened that savings account I was thinkin' about, hell, there's already just over five grand in there. There'll be more by the time I'm done.

If Sam wasn't watchin' me like a hawk before, he sure as hell is now. It's getting harder and harder to find high stakes games, harder and harder to hide money away for the nest egg; I can't sneak out like I used to 'cause Sam hardly ever sleeps anymore. But I do what I can when I can. That's gotta be enough, at least for now.

Like I keep tellin' Sam, there's plenty of time.

Dad's journal, which we both know word for word, is stashed at the bottom of my duffle, along with the spare key to the Impala and my _own_ journal, which I started writing just after picking up Sam from school.

As far as any kind of Last Will goes, mine is short and to the point. _Take the car and live your own life. Maybe even try to forgive yourself once in a while._

It's not much to leave him, I know that, but it's all I got…all I have left to give.

I plan on askin' Bobby to look out for the kid after—take Sam back to his place, make sure he gets up and gets moving. That, more than anything else, is what I want. A little brother who _lives_ and keeps on going. A little brother who knows and understands why I made the deal I did, why I committed myself to what he bitterly calls a 'prolonged suicide'.

Truth is, I don't think I could ever explain it to him. How it felt when I realized he was gone, kneeling in mud and trying my damndest not to start screaming. How it felt _knowing_ that if I ever saw Jake again I'd tear him apart with my bare hands—I'd make him suffer, just like Sam had suffered before he died…and just like _I'd_ suffered _after_ he'd died.

It's an experience a person's gotta have, I guess. Like tryin' to tell a blind person what the color red looks like or tryin' to explain to a deaf person why the first few notes of _Stairway To Heaven _ give me goosebumps.

Tryin' to explain to Sammy how it felt when I lost him is something I can't do.

I _know_ I can't, 'cause I've already tried.

I remember him tellin' me that making that deal was selfish. How could I do to him what dad did to me? How could I sign him up for the pain when I knew firsthand how it felt?

My answer to that had been that, yes, it _was_ selfish…but I was ok with it. That after all the crap I'd gone through, after everything I'd done for the family, I was entitled—I was _allowed_—to make that kind of choice for myself.

Even though I think that and even though I believe it, I'm not blind. I see what the kid's goin' through. I see how nervous he is, I see that he can't sleep, can't eat. I know he's goin' through all that because of me and even though I wouldn't trade back in on that deal for anything, I wish he wasn't hurting. I wish I could take the pain away.

But this falls under the 'big-brother-knows-best' banner and I'm sure that if Sam was in my position, he'd feel the exact same way.

Doesn't stop it from suckin' out loud, though.

Sammy's lost his temper with me a couple times and to be honest I wouldn't expect anything else. I'd never admit it out loud, but one year isn't long enough. Not even close.

Dreams are nothing…just imagination and thought. Doesn't mean I don't have a couple of my own. Doesn't mean I don't wanna live long enough to someday see Sam get everything he's ever wanted. Doesn't mean I don't wanna live long enough to one day have a little floppy-haired geek-in-training call me_ Uncle Dean._

I have dreams. But different from other people, I keep 'em to myself.

If I never say 'em out loud, they can never hurt me. The fact that I was _denied them_ can never hurt me.

I'm not exactly what you'd call a _sentimental_ person. I don't keep photo albums or spend time cryin' about my long lost childhood. There are good memories that I have, sure, but like everything else, thinkin' about them hurts. Thinkin' back to a time where I had the smallest shred of innocence, a time when Sam laughed easier and more often…a time when a beautiful blonde woman tucked me in every night, whispering that she loved me.

Goddamn, it hurts.

Sam's usually the one that gets sappy about that stuff. He asks questions about how we _used_ to be, what happened before.

Now, he gets sappy about the _future_. The fact that _he's_ gonna have a future alone and the fact that _I'm_ not gonna have a future at all.

It doesn't bother me as much as it should, the whole 'not gonna have a future' thing. I've told Sam before that I'm tired—tired of the job, tired of the life. Tired of bleeding, sweating and hurting for other people. For _strangers_. I get why doin' what we do is important. Saving lives, saving _people_.

How could _we_, our lives, ever be more important than that?

Fact is, leavin' Sammy is the only part of this deal that I'm not ok with. Leaving him behind, knowing that _I_ am responsible for the look on his face…knowing that _I_ am responsible whenever he feels pain or loneliness. I'll never be ok with that.

Another thing I believe? We _are_ important. Our lives are important. What we want and how we live, that's important.

I've had twenty-eight years of livin' for other people and I'm finally gonna do something for myself. I'm gonna _die_ for someone that's _not_ a stranger. Someone that means more to me than anything else.

My little brother. Because if dyin' for him doesn't make it all worth it, than there's nothin' that ever could.

* * *

_December 23rd, 2007_

_5 Months_

* * *

Man, and here _I_ was thinkin' that the holidays sucked _before._

Just a couple days out from Christmas. We rolled into Grand Rapids yesterday afternoon and I was hoping that havin' a job to keep us busy would take our minds off everything else.

Yeah, not a chance in hell.

Pun in no way intended.

Thankfully Sam started gettin' his geek on the second we hit town, frowning and askin' how it was possible to be snow-free in Michigan, middle of December.

I'm into the Christmas spirit this year, can't really help it. The few times I've asked Sam to lighten up he looks at me like I'm a complete retard. Don't know why, it's not like I ever had anything against the holidays when we were kids.

But I know he gets it. I know he understands.

He always was a smart kid.

I asked him to have Christmas with me—I promised that we'd do things right, like the few good times we'd had when we were little. But he didn't bite. Hell, he hardly even looked at me.

It wasn't 'till later that he told me he _can't_ do it. He _can't_ celebrate because he can't pretend that when next year rolls around things are gonna be fine. They won't be 'cause we won't be together.

He'll be alone and I'll be alone.

He'll be suffering and I'll be suffering.

Dammit, I've started gettin' depressed myself.

I know that he's right. Celebrating is hard when time is practically slippin' through our fingers, but I don't know what else to do.

I don't wanna tell him that it's killin' me. I don't wanna tell him that I'll do anything he wants, as long as he stops lookin' at me like that…as long as he starts smilin' again.

I've been working hard to hold it all in. I've played the big brother stoicism card like a friggin' champ and it's makin' me sick.

Because why _shouldn't_ I tell him? Why shouldn't I sit him down and talk to him like a _brother_…like I used to when he was little and all he needed was a strong hug to make him feel better.

But I know the answer to that one, too.

Because this time he's older and I'm older…and when you get older, a hug can't _possibly_ solve every problem. _Especially_ when that problem is that one of us is standin' there, willingly staring at the open gates of Hell. Not very much can solve a problem like that. Not for us anyway.

I wish it was that easy. I wish all I needed to do was grab the kid, squeeze him and _blam_…everything is fine, everything is normal.

Life is so much simpler when you're a kid.

You have a problem? You run to someone you trust, pinch out a couple tears and things somehow, magically, get fixed for you. _That_ was my job. _That's_ what I was good at. Fixing things. Sam ran to me and I fixed it because that's what big brothers do.

Hell, it's in the manual.

And I practically _wrote_ the manual.

I've tried to follow it every damn day of my life, too, even for those four years that Sammy was in school. I'd go up and check on him every once in a while and if I saw something that needed fixing, I did it.

He just didn't know it.

He never knew that I saw that football player take a swing at him in his freshman year, drunk and half pissed that Sammy was standing bravely in between him and that cute but nervous lookin' little brunette. He never knew that I followed that football player back to his house off campus and then knocked his head off a concrete wall, _just because_ he'd messed with my little brother.

That time he cut his hand with a kitchen knife? He never knew that I snuck into the hospital after him, flashing a stolen badge and askin' the nurse every possible question I could, making sure that he was bein' taken care of.

He'll _never_ know those things. They're a big brother's secrets, and dammit, they're gonna stay that way.

_I_ know about it and that's enough.

I don't know how this Christmas is gonna end. I don't wanna pressure the kid into doin' something that might upset him more than he needs or deserves.

There's enough of that goin' around now as it is.

Someone else wouldn't be able to see it, but I do. There's a weight on Sam's shoulders, a shadow in his eyes that never used to be there. He's supportive and cheerful because he _needs_ to be, not 'cause he wants to be…and to me, that means something.

I'm not scared of what's gonna happen in only a couple months, but Sam is.

_That's_ what the shadow is in his eyes.

Fear.

My little brother has fear in his eyes…and God help me, I haven't seen fear, real terror, in his eyes for a long time. I have to live with knowin' that that's _my _fault.

I'm startin' to think I _deserve_ to go to Hell.

* * *

_March 1st, 2008_

_2 Months_

* * *

_Let's go hunt the Morton House. It's our Grand Canyon._

Yeah, I've had more brilliant ideas in my twenty-nine years of human life.

As Sam grumpily informed me, they were few and far between.

I dunno what the hell I was thinkin', maybe it was the adrenaline that got to me. Maybe the idea that my time was runnin' out and my _bucket list_ still had a few too many things on it. I'd wanted the Morton House for years but dad had never caved…said it was too much, too big, for only two hunters. "_Once you're stuck in there, you're stuck_," he'd said. "_We're no use to anyone dead." _

I'd never gone on my own.

But the idea of takin' on that house with Sam? Goin' out with a bang? It was too good to pass up.

Yeah, like I said—I'd had more brilliant ideas.

But one thing's for sure, that hunt ended with a bang. We'd gotten stuck in the house, just like dad said…we'd almost gotten killed, just like Sam said…but we'd finished the hunt, side by side, just like I'd said.

Sure, we got our asses kicked twelve ways from Sunday. And yeah, we'd had to deal with that crack squad of bogus ghost hunters. But in the grand scheme of things? As hunters, we beat the hell out of our Grand Canyon…and as brothers, we'd come out of something big _together_.

As time winds down, I get sappier and sappier.

And Sam gets quieter and quieter.

Only two months left.

I'm not a guy who scares easy. There isn't much in the world that gets to me. But every time I look at that damn calendar and every time I see where we're at in terms of the deadline, I get sick to my stomach. _Fight or flight._ There's no where I can go and I know I can't run fast enough, so the _flight_ option is out. So me and Sammy are gonna fight.

Well, we're gonna try.

Hell, I don't even know where to start. Ten months of research, ten months of callin' almost everyone we know, ten months of checkin' out trick leads and we're exactly where we were the night I first made the damn deal.

I'm almost to the point of givin' up but Sam _won't_.

He doesn't have it in him.

And Jesus Christ, I love him for it.

I've never seen the kid so stressed out. If he sleeps, he sleeps at the computer…he doesn't eat unless I force him to and the fear that's been in his eyes for months isn't fear anymore. Now it's desperation.

I'm feelin' desperate myself but I won't tell him.

I can't.

Me freakin' out is the last thing Sam needs.

On the outside, I'm calm.

But on the inside…I'm screaming.

May 1st, 2008

Sixteen Days

I finally said it out loud.

After months of keepin' it to myself, tryin' to believe that I'm stronger than I know I am…I finally told Sammy the truth.

_I'm scared, Sam._

_I'm __really__ scared._

I told him and I don't care.

I don't care 'cause it's the truth. I'm more scared of _this_ than I've ever been of anything else. I've stared down a lot of barrels in my lifetime, hell, I've faced things that only exist in people's nightmares. I never hesitate…never even flinch. But this?

I've seen that look on Sam's face a few times and every time I see it I feel myself get angry. That crazy obsession…that never-endin' belief that the answer is just _on the next page_ or _one more_ _phone call away._ I stopped helpin' him look and he got mad at me again, tellin' me that I can't give up. That he won't _let _me give up.

Dammit, I'm tired.

The Crocotta broke me down, made me believe that there really _was_ a way outta this…for me and for Sam. But now that it's all over I know there's no way out.

Like I said to Sam, I can't expect dad to show up at the last minute with a sure-fire miracle. I can't expect the old man to save my ass. We're runnin' outta options and we're runnin' outta time.

With sixteen days left, there _is_ no time.

There's never enough time…

* * *

_May 17th, 2008_

* * *

I can hear the sound of the clock chiming midnight.

I can see the pain, the desperation, in Sammy's eyes as we look at each other, standing in the middle of someone else's house.

New Harmony, Indiana.

Time seems to stop, slow down, as if the cosmic 'freeze' button was pushed on the remote. I take the opportunity to soak in the sight of my little brother's face—the tears, the panic…the familiar eyes, nose, mouth and cheek bones that've been my responsibility since the moment dad first put him in my arms.

The kid I'd somehow raised was now a man.

Smarter than me.

Bigger than me.

_So much more_ than me.

I'm afraid…completely terrified of what's comin' for me. And as I look at Sammy, standing there and lookin' more heartbroken than I've ever seen him, I realize that while I'd never go back on the deal…I don't wanna go.

I'd had Sam with me for eighteen years.

I'd lost him for four.

Got him back for another three.

And now I'm faced with losin' him for the rest of eternity.

My name is Dean Winchester and I was raised not to believe in weakness. Raised not to believe in fear, or panic, or desperation.

But I _am_ weak.

I _am_ afraid, I _am_ panicking, and I _am_ desperate.

But I'm also outta time.

I've spent a year _living my life_—out of control, eating what I wanted, sleeping with anyone I wanted _whenever_ I wanted. The night I made the deal it was like being let out of the asylum. The bars were gone from the windows, the restraints were gone, the rules were gone. I'd given myself a year to live and I was going to _live._

It isn't until I hear the first howl of the hellhounds that I know I want to _keep on living_. But instead of being a reckless, loose asshat…I want to be Dean Winchester, older brother.

The hellhound appears only a few feet away from me.

And I run.

Sam is behind me, I can feel him there.

He's there when we're faced with Lilith for the first time.

He's there when I'm pinned to a table.

He's there when I'm dragged _off_ the table and attacked by teeth and claws on the hardwood floor.

He's there when I feel a pain so white, so hot, that I'm sure I'm dead already.

And he's there when I finally feel myself let go, the heat of hellfire already burning my face.

I don't know when I'll see him again with my own eyes, but Sammy makes the trip into Hell with me. Those good memories I have? The practical jokes, the laughs, the quiet talks, the warm baby that I held tight in my arms. All those feelings are what will keep me going.

For twenty-nine years, Sam has kept my head above water.

There's no way that's going to change any time soon.

_END_


	3. E and F

**Author's Note:** Hey everyone. I just wanted to apologize for how long it's taken me to get this updated. I lost a very close friend of mine in an accident back in early October and for a long time I was too emotionally exhausted to even think of writing. But a few days ago, I finally forced myself to sit at my computer. Now that they're done, I realize that writing these 2 one-shots let me get back to being creative and, as strange as it sounds, gave me something to focus on when real life got to be too much. I just wanted to thank all of you for providing me with a place to do that. I can't tell you how much it means.

I hope that you all enjoy this entry and I promise that the next one will come a little quicker.

Cheers!

* * *

**Author's Note for "E": **Just a random idea that a friend told me I should post. Thank you, love, for teaching me that friends stick by friends no matter how much they may brood.

**Author's Note for "F":** A few scenes from the Pilot in Dean's perspective-took me forever to write, seeing as how I had to watch the Pilot a thousand times to get everything right lol But that's ok, a little extra time with the boys certainly doesn't bother me!

* * *

**E is for Equality**

Equality: the state of being equal, especially in status, rights, and opportunities.

* * *

Sam was nearly ready to start screaming.

The silence in the car was deafening and if he had to listen to one more indifferent sigh float over from the driver's seat, he was sure he'd go completely crackers.

It'd been that way for days; the silence, the awkwardness…the never-ending tension that seemed to clog up the interior of the Impala so much it was sometimes hard to breathe. It was almost like a physical presence and for the life of him he couldn't figure out where in the hell it'd come from.

He'd been back on the hunt for almost two months and his relationship with his older brother was well on the way to mending itself. Of course they still had issues—who wouldn't?—but things had started looking up. The jokes came easier, the smiles were more frequent and the closeness that had been there since they were kids was slowly regenerating. There was still a lot of work to be done but it was at least a start.

So four days before, when Dean suddenly fell silent, Sam hadn't thought much of it. Maybe the older man was tired or lost in thought. That's fine, whatever, he was allowed.

But when the silence stretched and stretched, to the point of seeming never-ending?

Yeah, not so much.

The familiar notes of Metallica drifted through the car's speakers, almost completely in harmony with the growl of the engine—as if the car itself was humming along to the music.

It _was_ Dean's car, so the idea of the Impala humming along wasn't very farfetched.

He cast a sensitive glance over at his brother, trying to nonchalantly study the familiar features and planes of Dean's face; the angle of his cheek and jaw bones…the flare (or lack thereof) in his green eyes. Whether or not his body was relaxed or rigid.

And…

Yeah. Definitely rigid.

But in reality, Sam's covert observations didn't mean very much. If there was anyone in the world capable of denial or evasion it was his older brother—even if Sam called him openly on his strange attitude, it would take Hell freezing over for Dean to admit anything out loud.

_Friggin' jerk._

So…Sam did the only thing that he _knew_ would get his brother's attention.

Without even the slightest hesitation he reached over and ejected the tape from the stereo, completely ignoring Dean's loud protests. In the same movement he rolled down his window and stuck his arm outside, the tape held loosely in his hand.

He then met Dean's wide and furious eyes.

"Tell me what's goin' on with you or Metallica buys the farm."

"_What_?"

"You heard me."

Sam could see the struggle in Dean's eyes. They were practically screaming at him, _begging_ him to bring the sacred tape back into the safety of the car. He could see the wheels turning in his older brother's mind, as if he was thinking to himself, "_Gotta pull over, gotta pull over."_

Only thing was, traffic on that particular highway was astonishingly heavy for such a late hour and crossing four lanes of traffic to get to the shoulder couldn't possibly happen faster than it took Sam to release his hold on the cassette.

"You drop my tape, I'll kick your ass-"

"You talk or I'll drop the tape."

"Sam-"

"You've been quiet for nearly a week, Dean, I'm sick of it." He narrowed his eyes, daring Dean not to take him seriously. "Talk."

Dean tightened his hold on the steering wheel. "Just…put the tape back in, dude."

"You gonna talk?"

"There's nothin' to talk about!"

Sam's eyes narrowed even more. "I swear to _God_, Dean-"

"I'm tellin' you that there's nothin'."

"Then why are you so miserable?"

"I'm not miserable."

Sam moved his hand and visibly removed one finger—the hold on Metallica was now down to only three fingers.

Dean's eyes instantly widened like saucers.

The younger man quirked an eyebrow, nodding his head towards his hostage out the window. "You gonna talk?"

The expression on Dean's face was very nearly priceless. He was furious, anxious, disbelieving and shocked all at once. Sam could read him like a book—_surely little Sammy knows better than to threaten Metallica?_

After a moment, Dean made a face and nodded. "Put the tape back in."

"You're gonna talk?"

"Yes, goddammit, I'm gonna talk!"

Sam slowly pulled his hand back into the car, setting the precious cassette carefully into his lap—the movement was pointed, basically letting Dean know the danger wasn't gone. Metallica could _still_ go sailing out the window if the right buttons were pushed.

Dean sighed, running one hand down his rough and unshaven face. Sam watched him intently, still covertly studying his every move…his every sound.

Finally, after a moment, Dean said, "That hunt we did? Back in Midland?"

"The water wraith, yeah, I remember."

"You pushed me outta the way."

Sam blinked. "Uh…ok?"

"I took point, the damn thing was comin' at _me_…and you pushed me outta the way."

"So what?"

"_You_ don't push _me_ outta the way, Sam."

Dean sighed again, gripping the steering wheel with now white knuckles. "I've been hunting longer than you…I've taken out more wraiths than I can freakin' count, not to mention I'm _older_. You _never_ take point!"

The sudden burst of loudness from the driver's seat made Sam jump and he swallowed hard, trying hard not to frown. "You're mad at me."

It was a statement, not an question.

In response, the older man shook his head. "I'm not mad at you, Sammy… I just-" He paused, glancing over quickly. "I didn't bring you back out here to take chances like that, man, that's not why I came to get you."

"I know that."

"Do you?"

"You came to get me to help you find dad-"

"_Exactly_. To help me find dad." Dean looked over again. "_Not_ to take point…_not_ to take chances. You _never take chances_, you hear me?"

Sam couldn't hold in the frown anymore. "What are you saying?"

"I'm sayin' that if you ever pull that crap with me again, I'm shippin' you back to Stanford in a crate."

"Dean-"

"No, I mean it."

"Dean, I'm an adult now." Sam's voice was indignant and he turned slightly in his seat. "I can take care of myself, I don't need you lookin' out for me."

The older man snorted and said matter-of-factly, "I don't care."

"You don't _care_?"

"No. I don't care. You hunt with me, you stay behind me. Discussion over."

"I don't think so."

"Well, re-think it fast."

Sam groaned helplessly. "Dude, it was a water wraith…it was no big deal."

"What I said still stands. You pull that crap again, you're goin' back."

"You're startin' to sound like dad."

As soon as the words had come out of his mouth, Sam knew they were the wrong thing to say. There was an underlying bitterness in his voice that Dean wouldn't have missed for the world and if the clenching of the older man's jaw was any indication, he didn't appreciate it.

Sam swallowed hard. "Look…Dean…I didn't mean anything by that-"

"No?"

"No, I didn't. I just…"

"You don't like bein' told what to do, I get it. You've always been like that." Dean's voice was dangerously flat and Sam swallowed again. "Whatever moves your furniture, dude, I'm just tellin' you how it is."

"Oh, so it's an order?"

"I didn't mean it like that, but if that's how you're takin' it? Fine."

"You can't _order_ me to do anything."

The temperature in the car dropped nearly a hundred degrees. Dean didn't say anything…all he did was direct the car slowly across those four lanes of traffic and onto the first exit ramp he came across.

The small gas station just off the highway was practically deserted, except for an eighteen wheeler that was parked across the lot—presumably, the driver grabbing a couple hours of rest before hitting the road again.

The Impala pulled in under the intense lights above the pumps and came to a slow stop, Dean switching off the engine and leaning back in his seat. The vinyl squeaked against the leather of his jacket and Sam barely moved a muscle, waiting for whatever explosion his brother was brewing.

"I can't order you to do anything?"

The words were quiet but Sam knew that meant absolutely nothing.

Dean was a strange duck—when he got angry he completely blew up, his temper coming out in a shower of colorful english and impressive volume. But Sam knew from experience that with Dean, there was sometimes a calm before the storm; a moment where he was still and quiet before the rage in the situation started resonating.

The countdown was on.

Then…

"You're right, I can't." Dean hardly moved, his hands resting in his lap. "I can't _order_ you to do a damn thing. But I can _tell_ you to do something."

Sam pressed himself against the passenger door, waiting.

"While you were off playin' 'Sam Winchester, ivy-leaguer', I was hunting. The jobs I worked with dad? I watched him push me outta the way and take some pretty hard hits—broken ribs, a knife to the gut, a few tosses down the stairs. He did it because he was the senior man, he did it because he could _take_ the hits and keep on goin'." Dean turned his head, his eyes locking on Sam's. "I'm not sayin' you can't take those hits, Sam…hell, I practically taught you how to take a beating. But now? _I'm_ the senior man. And I'll be damned if I let you take hits when I can take them instead."

Sam felt a sudden and unexpected swell of emotion and he opened his mouth, murmuring, "It's not about that, Dean. We hunt together, we hunt as equals."

"You've been away from the hunt for four years, Sam. You got a long way to go before you start bein' an equal."

"What the hell's that mean?"

"It means what you think it means. I'm the oldest, I've been huntin' longer…you never, ever, take point over me. You got it?"

Sam felt his own jaw start to clench—another thing he'd picked up from his brother. "And if I take it anyway?"

"Then you start stayin' in the car during jobs." Sam pulled his eyes away from his brother's face, purely in fury and directed his gaze into the darkness beyond the windshield. He suddenly felt Dean's hand swat his knee but he didn't turn to look. "Look, man, I'm not tryin' to bust your chops, ok? That's not what this is about."

"Then what's it about?"

"What it's _always_ been about. Keepin' you safe." Dean swatted Sam's knee again and Sam could no longer ignore it; he turned his head, his eye finding Dean's in the dim light. After a moment, the older man said, "I know you're a man now, I get it. But it doesn't matter how old you get, you're still my kid brother. I just want you to be ok."

Sam's expression softened against his will and he sighed. "Yeah, I know that."

"Give yourself some time to get back into things, then we'll talk."

"I thought I was gettin' back into things ok."

"You are. But you're still stayin' behind me."

Sam groaned loudly and Dean snorted in amusement, pushing open his door. The creak of the hinges captured Sam's attention. "Where you goin'?"

"I gotta fill one tank-" Dean motioned to the near-empty gas gauge, then smirked. "And empty another."

Sam couldn't help but make a face. "Nice, dude."

"What?"

"Nothin', just get going."

If it was possible, Dean's smirk grew. "You want anything?"

"Yeah, grab me a coffee."

He watched Dean slide from the car, push the door closed, and then start across the brightly lit parking lot. His eyes stayed on the familiar leather-clad figure until he disappeared swiftly into the small diner, the door swinging closed behind him.

_I just want you to be ok._

_It doesn't matter how old you get, you're still my kid brother._

Even though the mother-bear over protectiveness got staler every year that went by, deep down, Sam loved his brother for it. It was a trait that practically shouted _Dean Winchester_ and as irritating as it sometimes got, no fault could be found in it. After all, it was a brother thing; because it didn't matter who the senior man was, it didn't matter who was older or who'd been hunting longer. The fact was that if given the chance, Sam would be just as over protective.

Dean was just too damn defensive of the big brother sandbox.

Apparently? It was his turf.

_Yeah. Whatever._

* * *

**F is for Flame  
**

Flame: a hot glowing body of ignited gas that is generated by something on fire.

* * *

It was just after one in the morning and it seemed like the Stanford campus' Halloween celebrations were already in full swing. People he assumed were happy and spirit-filled students wandered the narrow sidewalks, all in costume and some were even carrying weighted down pillowcases full of candy.

There were shouts of laughter drifting in through the open car window as he drove through Palo Alto, settling further into the vinyl driver's seat.

Truth was, he wasn't supposed to be there, and if anyone stood out among the cinnamon tanned beach goers, it was him.

The leather jacket. The cherry-black classic car with the throaty rumble that could _only_ be classified as the sexiest sound on earth. The loud rock music that inevitably clashed with the happy-go-lucky rhythms and beats of the Beach Boys and the Eagles. The skin that was just as sun-kissed as everyone else's, but was also rough…having seen years and years of abuse.

Dean Winchester _hated_ California.

Well…

The sun was nice—he'd spent _way_ too much time trudging around in rain and mud. The palm trees were a welcome change and the string bikinis definitely didn't suck.

His hatred was based solely on principle.

After all, it was California that had drawn away the most important thing in his life. The most important _person_ in his life. It was California that had promised independence and a reward for ambition…it was California that had sparked the beginning of a hellacious rebellion…it was friggin' _California_ that had started it all.

Those damn Californians with their surfing and their barbeques and their sun-tan lotion, SPF ten-thousand.

_Dammit._

Ok so he _knew_ he wasn't supposed to be there, but he'd never been one for following the rules.

He'd caved and made the trip purely out of necessity and maybe even due to a slight tinge of desperation—after three weeks of no communication with their dad, Dean was on the verge of worrying himself sick. He knew he needed to look, start his own investigation into whatever the hell his dad had been doing and he _also_ knew that he needed help.

The last he'd heard, the old man had been looking into a string of disappearances along a two-lane blacktop outside of Jericho. A rock in his stomach and a creepy-ass voicemail complete with EVP later, and Dean was in Cali.

Something was off.

John Winchester had a habit of disappearing unexpectedly for days at a time, getting so caught up in the hunt that he practically forgot that he even _had _a son who'd be waiting for a phone call.

But that damn _voicemail._

It didn't take a genius to know that something had happened. The last words his dad had said in the message went something like, '_Be careful, Dean. We're all in danger."_

After hearing _that_, the older Winchester brother's first instinct had been to go to Sam and make sure he was alright.

When he got there, however, that's when he'd emotionally stalled.

He'd actually been hovering on the outskirts of Palo Alto for nearly twelve hours, trying to work up the courage to drive across the town's border. Being so close made him nervous. The idea that Sammy was just _right there_, only a few minutes drive and a terrifying knock away.

It had been nearly a year since he'd last laid eyes on his baby brother. Almost seven months since he'd heard the kid's voice.

After Sam's initial escape nearly three years before, things between the usually inseparable brothers had been strained. It was like there was this brick wall in between them—too hard to break through, and complete with razor wire up top preventing either one from climbing over. The silence, the detachment, the distance, as well as the unanswered and unreturned phone calls had only added to it, brick by brick, layer by layer, until eventually the wall was all they could see.

Throughout their lives they'd made do—yes, they were different people…they were interested in different things, they had different values and they had different goals. But regardless of those differences they'd always been airtight.

The Winchester brothers against the world.

The ways in which they were dissimilar had never, ever, been a source of unrest between them. In fact it had made them stronger. Where one lacked, the other restored the balance. It had always been that way.

But after three years apart, growing individually and maturing and living on their own, the differences in them had turned into obstacles, barriers, which neither brother could overcome.

They were too damn _different._

Since Lawrence, they'd never been so far apart.

Sammy was never further away from his older brother than when Dean was in California…

Physical distance wasn't the only problem. No, most of it was psychosomatic; Dean, who was afraid of very little, was absolutely _terrified_ of seeing his brother face to face. Because what if he was different? What if the little kid that Dean had nurtured and raised was completely gone? Buried beneath the textbooks, the normalcy and the dream?

Dean loved that kid so much it hurt; he knew it would kill him to see all traces of _Sammy_ gone from the twenty-one year old's eyes.

He wasn't Dean's baby brother anymore.

He was now 'Sam Winchester, All-American Ivy-Leaguer'.

That was mainly why it'd been so long since he'd last made the trip out to California.

It was a custom of Dean's to swing by the West Coast whenever he could—in between jobs, mostly—to watch Sam from a distance, make sure the kid was taking care of himself and doing ok. Each trip out there was like a brand new heartache; '_Jesus, the kid's gettin' tall'…'Still hasn't gotten a hair cut'..._

Sam was constantly smiling, laughing and messing around with his friends—the people he'd attached himself to over those three years. Dean knew them all immediately by sight and recognized the ones that Sam seemed closest with. It was those people that he checked up on, the standard stuff; criminal records, if they were in any current field reports…he'd even gone as far as to check some of their medical records.

Absolutely _nothing_ was sacred when it came to Dean's family.

He knew that Sam's first-year roommate, Eric Wilkie, had been born and raised in Chicago...the youngest of five kids. The family was greatly respected in the windy city, Eric's oldest brother being one of the more renowned surgeons in the state.

He knew that Rebecca Warren, a cute little blonde that he'd seen around Sam several times, had a brother named Zack. _She_ was enrolled in Fashion Design and _he_ was enrolled in Computer Graphics and Technology. Both were at the top of their class.

Only one of Sam's friends had any kind of criminal record. Darrel Edwards had been charged with and convicted of second degree assault; but since he was underage at the time, he'd been court-ordered to attend anger management classes before he was allowed to return to school. Dean however wasn't too worried about that; he himself had taught Sam how to take a beating, as well as how to give a damn good one. There was no doubt that if the need arose Sam could take care of himself.

Didn't stop Dean from checking up on the dude, though.

**1:32**

The glowing display of his watch announced the late hour (or early hour, depending on a person's point of view) and even though he knew that his brother had definitely changed over those few years, he didn't think for a second that the kid had changed his sleeping patterns.

Sammy loved his sleep.

But then…_Sam_ may've been different. Dean didn't really know.

And deep down, under all the bravado and the buoyancy…underneath all the toughness, charm and sarcasm? That absolutely killed him. Because as far as he was concerned, there was no need for it.

The Impala rumbled to a gentle stop in the back of his brother's apartment. The apartment that he'd already broken into twice while Sam was either out or in class. The apartment that had one single bedroom—Sam's small wardrobe taking up the smaller half of the closet. The apartment with the funky shower head, the squeaky kitchen cupboards and the worn weather stripping on every single window.

_Sam's apartment_.

He left the car sitting quietly under the dim lighting at the back of the building and started up the wooden steps, being careful to avoid the stair he just _knew_ creaked and the hole in the landing that he could barely see in the darkness.

Vegas money said that Dean knew the layout of that building better than his brother.

The fire escape took him up to the second floor, directly underneath Sam's kitchen window. As it always was, the window was open just a crack and Dean couldn't help but shake his head. _No wards. No salt lines. Damn kid knows better than that._ He pushed the window up painfully slowly and wiggled through, landing on the tiled floor with a slight stumble. He mentally swore at himself. _Yeah, right, real smooth. _

He planned on telling Sam right off.

Getting in was way too easy.

_Someone could come in here and shoot him in his sleep, for Christ sake._

The small apartment was completely dark and Dean moved quietly, crossing the kitchen in three quick strides. His instincts as a hunter told him that he wasn't alone…his instincts as a brother told him exactly who it was.

He walked with purpose into the living room and the hit came from behind, just as he knew it would.

_Sam_.

The movements were familiar but the arms and hands that fired out and attacked were bigger, stronger, then he remembered them being the last time they'd fought. He blocked each hit flawlessly and saw his opportunity coming a mile away—Sam was always, _always_, weak when it came to blocking his left side. Even as a kid he'd always left it open and vulnerable, so much so that Dean had started deliberately aiming for it whenever they sparred in an effort to teach the kid balance and proper offence.

It seemed that the four years at school hadn't helped.

Sam's left hand came up towards his face and once again Dean blocked the move, pushing the arm down and forcing his free hand through the opening. The contact of his fist against his brother's face was loud and jarring and he watched Sam's body language to make sure he stayed on his feet. Sam, however, took a second to get himself back together and came back strong with a kick aimed at his intruder's midsection, fury and frustration evident on his face even in the darkness.

Rule number one of sparring or fighting; _never attack in anger._

And so came Dean's _second_ opportunity.

His right hand went to Sam's throat while his left grabbed hold of his brother's wrist, and using Sam's momentum and his own strength, Dean brought him down to the wood floor, leaning close. "Whoa, easy tiger."

At the sound of his voice Sam immediately stilled, his breathing heavy and labored. "Dean?"

The older man couldn't help but chuckle at the pure awe and surprise in Sam's voice.

"You scared the crap outta me."

The smile vanished. "That's because you're out of practice."

The next move was flash-quick and unexpected. Before he knew it, Dean was thrown down onto his back with Sam's abnormally long leg positioned over his chest, constraining. When his brother looked down at him expectantly, Dean let out a quick breath. "Or not. Get off me."

Sam released him and got quickly to his feet, holding a hand down towards him. Dean accepted it and let his brother pull him to his feet.

"Dean, what the hell are you doing here?"

_He's even taller since the last time I saw him._

_Jesus, where's the time go?_

In an effort to hide the growing ache in his chest, the raw relief at being back in his little brother's presence, Dean raised both hands and patted Sam's shoulders teasingly. "Well, I _was_ lookin' for a beer."

Sam wasn't having it.

"What the hell are you _doing_ here?"

_Ok, Sammy._

"Ok, alright, we gotta talk."

"Uh…the phone?"

He resisted the urge to chuckle bitterly, instead settling for, "If I'd called, would you've picked up?"

The sudden sound of a concerned female voice stole their attention and when the lights were flicked on Dean glanced over at the girl he'd seen several times before—Jessica Moore…twenty-one years old, pre-med, Sam's girlfriend…and _definitely_ someone Dean would go for under normal circumstances.

Short shorts…and a high cut shirt with a picture of loveable little blue characters on it.

He couldn't help but stare at her.

"Jess. Hey."

Dean never once took his eyes off of the blonde standing inside the door; Sam, however, was instantly a little fidgety.

"Dean, this is my girlfriend Jessica."

"Wait—" A small smile came across the girl's face. "Your _brother_ Dean?"

_And…cue smart-ass._

"I love the Smurfs." Taking a few small and measured steps away from his brother's side, Dean started towards her, turning on the charm and sending her an appreciative smile. "Y'know, you…are _completely_ outta my brother's league."

The expression on Jessica's face shifted slightly and from where he was standing, Dean could _feel _Sam's defenses rise.

Jessica didn't seem to notice the sudden tension.

"Just…" She motioned back towards the bedroom, "—let me put something on."

"_No_, no, no…I wouldn't dream of it." He shook his head, as if the idea of her adding more clothing was the worst possible idea. "Seriously." After one more quick look, Dean started backing towards Sam again. "Anyway, I gotta borrow your boyfriend here, talk about some private family business, but uh…nice meetin' you."

A tight smile came to her face and Sam instantly reacted to it. "No." Dean watched him move surely across the floor to stand beside Jessica, wrapping an arm protectively around her waist. "No, whatever you wanna say, you can say it in front of her."

Any awkwardness Dean felt he swallowed.

Without missing a beat, he turned to face the both of them and said, "Ok…um…Dad hasn't been home in a few days."

Anyone else wouldn't have been able to see it, the slight darkening of Sam's hazel eyes. With an underlying bitterness and a festering anger that Dean recognized well, he said, "So he's workin' overtime on a Miller Time shift…he'll stumble back in sooner or later."

_Ouch._

Dean felt something ugly just _begging _to be spat out across the floor in retaliation to the attitude but instead he gave a silent sigh, glancing down at the floor before raising his eyes and hitting Sam right where the kid would get the message.

"Dad's on a hunting trip…and he hasn't been home in a few days."

Sam's eyes changed once again—darkening with understanding and recognition. After a few quiet seconds, he finally swallowed and said, "Jess, excuse us…we have to go outside."

* * *

It was weird.

That was the first thought that came to mind as the Impala sped down the darkened side road, headlights blasting away the darkness that seemed to nearly engulf the car.

He'd been given the beloved Chevy just over two years before and he'd spent those two years, for the most part, _alone_ in the car, with just the sound of the engine and the heroes of classic rock for company.

But for a short time, however long a short time was meant to last, he wasn't alone.

Sam sat beside him, his long legs folded awkwardly in the small space of the shotgun seat. His head was turned towards the window and his sharp eyes watched the passing darkness as if waiting for something for pop out or appear.

Dean thought back to a younger and much _smaller_ Sammy doing the same thing, his nose pressed hilariously against the glass.

He thought back to a time when the small family of three had been travelling from Wyoming to New Mexico; their father had been driving while the two brothers had been burrowed together in the back seat, their tiny arms wound around each other as they tried to share the one and only blanket that had been in the trunk. Dean remembered reaching up to the foggy glass, pressing his hand against it and leaving a handprint behind; he'd grinned to his cold-skinned little brother and announced that he'd made his mark. Sam had immediately strained to reach up to the glass, placing his tiny hand inside Dean's fading print. His fingertips had barely touched the edges of his brother's palm. After a moment he'd pulled his hand away and snuggled back up against Dean's chest, muttering quietly that he hated being little.

The ache in his chest flared and he swallowed hard, tightening his fingers around the steering wheel.

"So Jessica seems…nice."

His voice broke through the music and it took Sam longer than it used to to react. Eventually he cleared his throat and looked over, his eyes cautious in the shadows. "Yeah. She is."

Dean couldn't help but smirk to himself. "I _really_ love the Smurfs."

"Do you have to be so obnoxious?"

Dean had been expecting some lightness. Well, actually he'd been more _hoping_ for it. He friggin' hated it—they were less than two feet apart sitting there in the car but emotionally they were still _miles_ away from one another.

He decided not to take the bait.

"You two been…you know, _smurfing_…long?"

A tired sigh. "Dean—"

"Come on, Sammy, I'm just makin' conversation."

"First of all, it's _Sam_. Second of all, you never just _make conversation."_

Dean canted his head thoughtfully. "You know, you have a lot of bitterness in you, Sammy. You should do something about that."

"Can we just get to Jericho before morning, please?"

"I'm just sayin'—"

"Well, don't," Sam said irritably.

Dean couldn't help but let out a quiet sigh and shake his head almost barely.

Who knew he'd go to Palo Alto, _finally_ force himself to confront Sam, only to discover that his affectionate little brother had in fact been replaced by a brick wall now wearing his face.

It was so pitiful it was almost funny.

"What's so funny?"

He hadn't realized he'd actually laughed out loud and he tried to sober up. "Nothin', man."

Silence choked up the already tense atmosphere in the car and Dean tried to focus his mind on the sprawling road in front of him. He was thankful that it was so late; the dark hid the fact that he was on the verge of gritting his teeth…it hid the fact that he was barely refraining from slamming his head against the steering wheel.

_Friggin' California._

"Almost three years."

The sudden sound of his little brother's voice was both jarring and soothing at the same time and Dean glanced over quickly, taking in the shine of the radio's dial across Sam's profile. "What's that?"

"I said, Jess and I have been together for almost three years."

_Atta boy, Sammy._

Dean nodded, catching his bottom lip between his teeth.

He thought about following his usual patterns and making a sarcastic remark, maybe commenting on the beautiful blonde's ridiculous shirt again. But the smartass that lived in his mouth simply sighed and slouched, feeling particularly sappy.

He nodded again quickly and felt the corner of his mouth quirk up into a smile on its own. "She sure is somethin'."

"Yeah. She is."

"You two have a class together or…?"

The truth was, Dean already knew the answer to that question—he knew that Jessica was pre-med, planning on one day becoming a pediatrician. But the fact was he wanted to ask the question and he wanted his brother to answer it…he wanted _Sam_ to want him to know.

Sam settled further into the seat and then shook his head. "No, actually uh…she's pre-med. Same year as me, though."

Dean had to fight to keep from grinning like a moron at the small amount of progress. "So how'd you meet her then?"

"A buddy of mine; his sister is Jess' best friend."

"Good setup."

"Yeah, I guess."

The grin found it's way onto Dean's face and he glanced over, meeting Sam's gaze for the shortest instant. "Dude, _please_ tell me you took that buddy of yours out for a beer."

Sam, surprisingly enough, sent him an answering grin. "Twice."

All Dean could do was laugh.

* * *

"Ok, here's where Dad went—" The flashlight cascaded over the well-used map. "It's called Black Water Ridge, Colorado."

"Sounds charming. How far?"

"About six hundred miles."

Dean glanced over, feeling hope overflow in his chest.

For the first time in four years, they'd done something together—they'd worked as a team, flawlessly and lethally, just as they'd used to. Back before Sam had decided to become his own person.

He was happy. _Unbelievably _happy.

"If we shag ass, we can make it by morning."

Sam's eyes immediately traveled downward, staring at that map as if he was looking for something to keep himself occupied. "Dean…uh…"

Realization dawned brutally and painfully.

"You're not goin'?"

"The interview's in like, ten hours, I gotta be there."

And just as easily as that, a big brother was back at square one. Back to the beginning of a road he'd hated and despised since the moment he'd first been forced to set foot on it.

And quite suddenly, he was alone again.

"Yeah—" He turned to face forward in his seat. "Yeah, whatever. I'll take you home."

After only a second or two, Sam switched off the flashlight and plunged the interior of the car back into darkness.

AC/DC filled the large void between them and Dean tried hard to focus on the music, not even having the emotional energy to beat out the drumbeats on the steering wheel as he usually did.

The Impala slid to a stop right at the curb outside Sam's apartment and Dean cut the engine. Without the slightest hesitation, Sam pushed open his door and climbed out, pushing it closed gently behind him.

Dean watched protectively his brother's every move and when he leaned down to look in, Dean had to fight to stop himself from firing out and dragging the kid back into the car through the open passenger window.

"You'll call me if you find him?"

Dean simply nodded.

"Maybe I can meet up with you later, huh?"

_Don't make promises you won't keep, Sammy._

But that wasn't what came out.

"Yeah, alright." As Sam turned to walk away, Dean reached down and turned the key, reveling in the sudden sound of the Impala's engine filling the quiet street with her rumble.

His eyes found their way to Sam's retreating back and Dean called out, "Sam!" The kid stopped and turned around, hitching his duffel bag further up his shoulder; he blinked expectantly and Dean swallowed, trying hard to appear natural. "You know, we made a hell of a team back there."

The younger Winchester shifted slightly, unnecessarily adjusting his bag again. There was a relatively quiet, "Yeah."

The two stared at each other—one brother silently asking, on the verge of begging, the other to stay…the second brother not knowing how to admit that he wanted to without falling back into a world he'd sworn he was done with.

It was the same old battle, the same old impasse.

Dean gave a small nod and put the car in gear, pressing his foot reluctantly down onto the gas pedal. The car moved forward smoothly, pulling away from the curb and carrying him away from the one person he had left.

Only the fact that he was heading to Colorado on his own proved that he didn't really have Sam at all.

He didn't bother looking in the rear-view because he knew within the depths of himself that it wouldn't do any good. It would only remind him of what he'd lost…or actually, what he'd willingly _given_ _up_.

Denial was one of the most honed skills in the Winchester arsenal against emotional damage and Dean was very, _very_ good at it. He had to be.

Too bad the kickback was a bitch.

It wasn't until he was turning off of Sam's street that the feeling hit him. It was like an alarm bell, an air raid siren going off in his head. His instincts were _screaming _at him, pleading with him to turn around.

Something had happened or was _going_ to happen.

_Sam_.

He directed the Impala into the nearest driveway and threw her into reverse, the tires squealing as he turned himself around, heading back the way he'd come.

He saw the smoke before he saw the flames.

The second floor Sam's small apartment was completely overcome, the blaze nearly sky high. People were coming out of the homes on both sides of the street, pointing and screaming.

Dean didn't need to ask around or search the crowds for his abnormally tall brother with the stupid floppy hair. He knew, he _knew_, that Sam wasn't outside. He was inside. And that realization was all it took for the big brother snoozing inside him to snap awake and rear it's head.

He brought the Impala to a screeching stop and he was jumping out and tearing across the front lawn before his brain had even registered the movement.

Somewhere off in the distance, he heard voices—people screaming at him, telling him to stop, asking him where he thought he was going. But he didn't answer, he didn't have time.

Dean burst through the front door of the apartment and took off up the stairs, having to raise his leather clad arm to shield his face from the sudden and intense heat that hit him on the upper landing. The door to Sam's bedroom was to his right and he surged forward.

Sam was screaming, lying on the double bed with his eyes locked upward on the ceiling. Dean followed his gaze and felt his heart leap up into his throat—he saw Jessica, bleeding and pinned to the ceiling…tendrils of flame covering and burning her, every single inch of her.

For the slightest second, Dean was frozen.

He could see his mother, he could hear a baby-Sammy crying, he could hear his father screaming at him.

_Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Don't look back! Now, Dean, go!_

Back then, he'd simply ran…he hadn't thought about it or questioned it.

Twenty years later, he was doing the same exact thing.

"Sam!"

Dean ran to the bed and reached forward, his fingers grabbing handfuls of Sam's jacket and pulling with every ounce of strength he had. The second Sam was on his feet he started fighting, struggling against Dean's hold, trying his damndest to get back into the room.

"Jess!"

Dean tightened his hold. "Sam, we gotta get out of here!"

The heat of the flames dangerously intensified and Dean found one last surge of strength. Sam finally moved, allowing himself to be ushered out of the room and down the stairs all the while screaming Jessica's name.

He never once took his fingers away from the back of Sam's jacket as they finally crashed through the front door, down the steps and onto the front lawn. People started screaming again at the very sight of them emerging from the flames; some kind-hearted souls ran forward to see if they needed help and Dean vaguely registered the blaring sound of a fire truck's sirens and the flashing of red and blue lights.

As soon as they were clear of the fire, Sam collapsed to the ground as if his plug had been pulled. He fell into the cold grass and immediately started sobbing into the soot-covered arm of his jacket.

And all Dean could do was fall down beside him, gripping his shoulder reassuringly—one of his thousand versions of _I'm here._ "Sammy." He nearly cringed at the sound of his own voice; hoarse and rough from the smoke and from the shouting.

The firemen poured from the trucks and started pulling the hoses free.

Dean wanted to move. He wanted to get Sam as far away from the charred remains of his apartment as he could. "Sammy—" He swallowed hard, squeezing Sam's shoulder again. "Come on. We gotta move."

"I can't." Sam's voice was little more than a whisper.

"Sammy—"

Sam's shivering had progressed to shaking, his breathing ragged. "I…can't…"

"Sam? Are you hurt?"

The younger man didn't answer. He simply folded in on himself, his shaking progressing to near convulsions and his cries progressing to sobs. "Sam. Look at me." Dean coughed harshly, moving closer to his fallen brother. "Look at me, Sam."

He ran his hands over Sam's sides, up his arms, frantically searching and thankfully finding nothing.

A high-low siren joined the chaos and before he knew it, Dean was overrun with fervent paramedics. An oxygen mask was snapped unceremoniously over his face and he tried to bat away the hands of the offending medic, scowling at the young punk over the top of the mask.

It took nearly twenty minutes for Dean to convince them that both him and his brother were fine, just shaken. He was finally able to pull the mask from his face and toss it down to the grass, trying his damndest not to cough and warrant any more attention.

The police had arrived moments after the ambulance but they hadn't come over yet, obviously getting the story from people milling about outside the house.

Dean was thankful for small miracles.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and let out a breath, his hunter's eyes scanning the charred and burned remains of the apartment.

Smoke was still billowing from the upstairs window as firemen came and went through the front door in groups. The entire area was drenched—the grass, the sidewalk, absolutely everything being sprayed by the countless high pressure hoses it had taken to get the fire under control.

He turned slowly, scanning the area for a sign of his brother.

Dean spotted him easily.

The trunk of the Impala was open, as was the weapon's locker, and Sam stood there with a shotgun in his hands. As Dean approached, he heard the tell-tale snap as the rock-salt rounds were loaded. It was a sound he knew well, a sound that offered him a small degree of comfort.

He came to a slow stop at Sam's side, watching as his little brother handled the weapon with an awe-inspiring sureness that he'd forgotten.

Dean's green eyes traveled up from the shotgun and settled on Sam's heartbreakingly sad face—his bright and cheerful eyes were dark and empty…his shoulders were slumped…his hands shook as he handled the weapon.

Their eyes locked for the shortest instant, Dean trying to read the countless desperate emotions passing through the familiar features.

Sam broke the eye contact and gave a small nod, sighing quietly. After a second, he tossed the newly loaded weapon back into the weapons locker and lowered the wooden plank.

"We got work to do."

The trunk slammed shut and all Dean could do was nod in pained understanding.

_Yeah, Sammy…we do._

END


	4. G

**Author's Note:** Hey all! I hope everyone is having a great start to the new week! Happy Monday! I want to thank everyone for all the wonderful messages and the condolences I received with the last entry. I can't tell you how much I appreciate that. Each message made things a little easier. I hope you all like this letter and hopefully the next one will be up soon!

**Disclaimer:** The brilliance and the beauty belongs to Eric Kripke and company...

* * *

**G is for Gamble**

Gamble: an act of gambling; an enterprise undertaken or attempted with a risk of loss and a chance of success.

* * *

It was the best idea they'd had in almost forty-eight hours—pulling off the highway and making their way into the hole-in-the-wall biker bar.

After all, they'd been driving for nearly two days. Sam was starving and Dean had been complaining that if he didn't find a decent bathroom ASAP he was gonna go right off his head.

The inside was completely packed with loudness and cigarette smoke was clouding the air. Dean immediately left to find a bathroom while Sam made his way to the first empty booth he came across, sliding into the seat and setting his shoulder bag carefully onto the table.

He'd left the seat facing the door empty for his brother, knowing that Dean preferred being able to see everyone coming in.

It was the hunter in him.

And the same kind of hunter was in Sam.

He looked around stealthily, studying every single person his eyes passed over—one of the waitresses, probably no older than eighteen or nineteen, was serving food to the small group of men at the bar, who, from the looks of it, belonged to the Harley Davidson cycles parked out in the lot…the man and woman talking quietly to one another by the women's bathroom door, obviously smashed and obviously waiting for the perfect opportunity to sneak in together unnoticed…the hard looking guy sitting at the bar nursing what looked like a glass of whiskey had jailhouse ink on his left forearm; Leavenworth, if Sam's guess was correct.

Sam's spidey-sense wasn't tingling and he could tell that there was no immediate threat to him _or _his brother.

Well, unless of course said brother pissed someone off.

Which happened more often than not.

Dean emerged from the bathroom just as Sam was ordering them two beers from the waitress. The older brother took a good long incredulous look at the drunken couple by the women's bathroom door before casting his watchful green eyes over the rest of the bar.

Sam very nearly smiled.

Dean's approach was natural and calm, as if he wasn't anything more than a weary traveler looking for a cold beer to help loosen up his stiff shoulders. Sam however knew the truth. He was a silent predator, taking in absolutely every person, every sight, every smell and every sound…while at the same time, analyzing each thing and trying to determine how much of a threat it was.

Seeming to come to the same conclusion that Sam had, Dean slid into the booth and smiled. "You order anything?"

"Two beers."

"How 'bout food?"

"No, not yet." Sam couldn't help but make a face. "I gotta be honest, dude; I don't wanna eat anything here."

Dean frowned. "Why not?"

"Take a look around."

"Already did. So what?"

"Lemme put it this way—I'm starting to wish I brought in that spare pair of socks I found in my bag."

"What the hell for?"

"I'm thinkin' I wanna use them as mittens, I don't wanna touch a _thing_ in here. It's kinda gross."

All the older man could do was blink stupidly. "Dammit, Sam, you're _such _a chick."

"I am huh? And how was the bathroom?"

Dean thought about the question for a second before a slightly disgusted look flitted across his features. "Yeah, it was nasty."

"Really? In a snazzy place like this? _Shocking_."

"So not only are you a chick, you're also a smart ass."

Sam opened his mouth to snark back but was interrupted when the young waitress returned to the table, setting down two beer bottles before shooting both of them a polite smile. "Can I get you boys anything else?"

And…_so it begins._

As if it was an inbred reflex, Dean started to flirt outrageously and soon reduced the poor girl to blushes and giggles. Yet another waitress in an already long line succumbing to the unstoppable and, for some reason, completely _irresistible_ Dean Winchester charm.

As Dean smirked and moved to lean closer to her, Sam pointedly cleared his throat and quirked an eyebrow. "Uh, Dean?"

The older Winchester paused for a moment and catching Sam's gaze he nodded almost imperceptibly.

Amid the blushing and teasing, the two men somehow managed to order a burger each. Dean sent a mischievous smirk to the waitress as she walked away and as soon as she was out of earshot he rounded on Sam like an angry wolverine.

"You know, Sammy-" He started, his usually deep and rich voice suddenly sounding dangerous. "I've been in the car for two damn days with you. The _least_ you could do? Is let me have a little fun."

"She's underage, Dean."

"Yeah right. How the hell d'you know that?"

"Just…trust me, dude. Ok?" Before the conversation could be mutated into a truly ridiculous argument, Sam opened his satchel and pulled out a folded stack of road maps… immediately starting a ridiculous argument on his own. "And another thing, Dean. Don't fold the maps, ok?"

"I didn't."

"Well someone did. There's a huge crease right through Minnesota." Sam carefully unfolded the maps and spread them open across the surface of the table. "_Roll_ the maps."

"Sam, I swear to freakin' God-"

A smile suddenly broke out on Sam's face and he shook his head. Barely holding in a laugh, he said, "Dean, you're too easy."

"Can we just figure out where the hell we're goin' to next, huh? How 'bout that?"

A stack of Sam's own hand written notes was pulled from the satchel next, as well as a few newspaper clippings from various statewide newspapers.

Rifling through random newspapers and reports centered in Altamont, Illinois had landed him three possible supernatural events over the past few months. A possible poltergeist and two salt and burns that looked to be pretty basic.

Unfolding one of the clippings, Sam slid it across the table and pointed one finger at the headline; Dean's eyes instantly followed Sam's direction, zeroing in on the paper.

"Right here in Altamont. Newlywed couple moves into an already existing house. Within the first week, a single call comes in to the local 911 dispatch; a young woman screaming that there's something in her house and that she's locked in the kitchen." Sam's finger trails down the page and Dean's eyes immediately follow. "Police, fire and EMS all respond to the call, arriving at the house. They find the wife—twenty-four year old Carrie DiHolkie—alone in the kitchen. They had to bust in the door with an axe."

Dean looks up, meeting his brother's gaze. "What about the husband?"

"Twenty-seven year old Brad DiHolkie. Police officers checking out the upstairs found him in the master bedroom closet."

"What the hell was he doin' in there?"

"He was dead. Autopsy concluded that he'd died of asphyxiation. Massive electrical shock post-mortem." Sam pulled the clipping from Dean's line of sight and replaced it with another piece of paper—that one official Illinois State Police stationary. "The Staties even conducted an investigation."

"And I'm guessin' they found something?"

"Faulty wiring. According to the lead detective? The wires had been stripped and pulled from the light fixture…then someone, or in our case, some_thing_, wrapped the wires around DiHolkie's neck."

"Shock _and_ strangulation." Dean shook his head, catching his lower lip between his teeth for a moment. After a short silence, he concluded. "Poltergeist."

"Yeah, looks like it."

"They didn't think suicide?"

"Everyone the cops talked to said that DiHolkie was happy—dude just got married to his college girlfriend, they were already talking about having kids." Sam shrugged, leaning close to his brother across the table. "No one suspected a thing. The standard, "_He'd never do that_"."

"Yeah, well, just 'cause someone doesn't _look_ crazy doesn't mean they're not."

Dean kept his eyes on the report and blindly reached for his beer bottle. He would've knocked it over if Sam hadn't grabbed it for him, handing it over gently. The older man sent him a small embarrassed nod as a thank you.

"I'm guessin' she's not staying at the house?"

Sam shook his head, swallowing a mouthful of beer from his own bottle. "Staying with her parents until further notice."

Dean let out a breath. "At least we don't have to worry about gettin' her outta there."

"So I guess the usual routine?" Sam asked quietly, watching as the waitress grabbed their plates and slowly started to approach. "Cleansing?"

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "That's about all we can do."

"Ok, guys-" The waitress stopped beside their booth, carefully setting down a plate in front of each brother. With a free hand she motioned to the small container at the other end of the table. "Ketchup is over there." She directed her eyes to Dean and her words couldn't have been more obvious. "Can I…get you anything else?"

Sam barely contained an eye roll.

Dean shot her a thousand watt smile. "Thanks, we're uh…we're good."

With yet another blush in her cheeks the waitress smiled in return and left them alone, making her way back behind the counter.

"You are _completely _unreal, Dean."

He looked up in the middle of stuffing a heap of french fries in his mouth. "What'd I do?"

"You and the—you know what? Never mind."

"So-" Dean swallowed the mouthful of fries with difficulty but tried to appear nonchalant. "Routine cleansing, we need mojo bags?"

"Angelica Root, van van oil, crossroad dirt, few squares of clean linen-"

"That the list we got from Missouri?"

Sam nodded. "I think we got everything we need in the trunk. We're gonna have to get more crossroad dirt after this. We have enough for the mojo bags, but…"

"Next time we pass a crossroads, we'll fill up a couple jars." Dean shook his head. "Friggin' 'geists, man. Why does it have to be one of those things, I _hate_ those things."

Sam popped a french fry into his mouth. "Yeah, well, _you_ didn't nearly get strangled by the last one."

Dean barely reacted to the words but Sam knew it'd touched a nerve.

Dean had never said anything out loud before but Sam knew; running into a bedroom and seeing your family lying there on the floor with a lamp's electrical cord supernaturally wound around their neck? Not to mention the horror of not being able to break it free right away? That would affect anyone.

Even Sam's strong and virtually permanently un-bothered older brother.

He opened his mouth to try and soften the unintentional blow, but the older man spoke first. "Let's just eat and get the hell outta here. The sooner we get the job done—"

"The sooner we're back on the road." Sam nodded, sending his brother a tiny smile. "Yeah, I know."

And so they fell into casual conversation, talking about practically nothing—how greasy Sam's burger was compared to how completely _awesome_ Dean's was…speculating about what the guy from Leavenworth had 'been in for' (Dean had even dared Sam to go over and ask, but was promptly told to shut the hell up).

Dean's flirting with the waitress was quickly getting obnoxious and when she left the table after the fourth time of asking if their meals were ok, Sam let out a snort.

Dean merely shot a scowl across the table, correctly interpreting his little brother's incredulity.

They finished their food quickly and drained whatever was left in their beer bottles; Dean dropped two twenties onto the table and both men slid from the booth. As Sam was reaching for his satchel, he nearly jumped at the loud and sudden sound of a sharp impact—as if a cue had been cracked off the edge of a pool table.

Both Winchesters directed their eyes to the very back of the room.

Two men who had obviously just finished a game were standing in each others faces. One belonged to the group of bikers who Sam had checked out earlier, and the other he couldn't remember having ever seen.

The tension between the two of them, as well as the tension that seemed to be radiating from the group of bikers observing, was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Both brothers were instantly aware of it.

Sam subconsciously focused on the weight of his Beretta stuck in the waistband of his jeans at his lower back. It brought on a feeling of comfort.

Glancing at Dean out of the corner of his eye, he could tell that he had done the exact same thing.

Sam also knew that there was only one exit. They'd have to pass by the billiard tables in order to get back out into the parking lot.

_Dammit._

He felt Dean's eyes pass over his face and Sam met his gaze.

Dean's non-verbal communication was excellent and the instructions in his eyes couldn't be clearer. _Stay close. Don't say anything and don't make eye contact. Anything happens, get behind me._

Not having it in him to complain about being treated like a twelve year old, Sam gave a nearly imperceptible nod and the two set off across the bar, approaching the angry men cautiously.

As they got closer, Sam took the opportunity to study the other player—the one he hadn't seen before.

He was probably around fifty years old and he was obviously down on his luck; the tattered brown jacket he was wearing was covered with dirt stains and water marks and there were several tears and rips in his faded jeans.

He was a drifter—just like Sam and Dean were—only he seemed slightly worse off.

It couldn't have been easier to see that he'd lost the game and was now owing some serious scratch to the hardened biker he'd been playing.

The other guy, who even by Winchester standards was damn near _enormous_, didn't look too pleased about being stiffed on his winnings. He gave a hard and uncalled for shove to the older man, who promptly fell backwards into the table with a look of pain and surprise appearing on his face.

Sam couldn't help but tense and he instinctively moved forward to intervene.

One of Dean's arms flew out, holding him back. "Sam," he said, his tone cautioning. "Not our problem."

"Dean-"

Dean's fingers suddenly curled around the material of Sam's jacket sleeve and squeezed tightly.

Once again, his non-verbal communication was excellent.

Pulling his hand away, Dean slowly started walking towards the exit again. Sam followed closely behind and tried to appear as uninterested as he could.

The hunter in him was alert, though. Just like the hunter in Dean was.

Dean reached the group first, politely trying to push his way through in an effort to make it to the door. However, in their world…their luck couldn't _possibly _be that good.

One of the burly bikers that had been watching on the sidelines noticed the two brothers trying to make their way through and immediately made his way over, effectively blocking Dean's path.

Sam could feel Dean's defensive hackles rise dangerously but the expression on his older brother's face was as charming as always. "Excuse me, man, we just wanna get through-"

"Where d'you think you're goin'?"

Sam nearly cringed. _Uh oh._

"Well, now, I don't think that's any of your business."

There was an edge, a sudden warning in Dean's deep voice, despite the small smile on his face.

The man seemed to recognize the change immediately and his somewhat terrifying features darkened in response. "That so?" He cast a quick glance at Sam, which naturally didn't go unnoticed—Dean's entire body went rigid. "You and your…_buddy_ should stay. Get a couple games of pool in-"

Dean let out a tight chuckle. "Trust me, Kong…you don't wanna play me."

"No, I think I do."

"You shouldn't-" Dean motioned to the larger man's yellowing and crooked teeth. "Gotta save all your cash for a new set of teeth."

The shove against Dean's shoulder was sudden and hard and Sam spoke up immediately. "Hey!" He narrowed his eyes. "Leave him alone."

Dean warned again, "Stay outta this, Sammy."

The biker laughed suddenly. "Yeah, stay outta this _Sammy_." His voice was mocking and it caused both brothers to scowl.

Sam should've seen it coming a mile away.

Kong once again directed his eyes to the younger brother and the intended threat there was loud and clear.

It took only about a half a second.

Half a second of near silence before Dean pulled his arm back and landed a violent punch to the side of the man's head.

The barroom was suddenly in complete chaos.

Beer bottles were all of a sudden being thrown into walls, smashing in showers of foam and broken glass…food was being chucked in replacement of real weapons…the poor waitress screamed bloody murder when one man was picked up and thrown half-hazardly right over the counter, crashing into the display of liquor bottles behind the bar.

Sam's only concern right then was getting his hands on his furious older brother, which was proving next to impossible. Dean was, at that moment, engaged in a death match with the biker that had confronted them; the two men were exchanging brutal blows and Sam could already see the split lip that Dean was sporting, along with the skin that had been broken open just underneath his left eye.

He made to move towards them but was sidelined.

Another biker, who'd obviously seen him and guessed his intentions, tackled him from the side and sent the both of them crashing down to the floor.

Sam felt his satchel crushed underneath him and silently thanked Dean for having made him leave the laptop in the locked trunk of the car.

That and all _other_ pointless thoughts were driven from Sam's mind as someone suddenly perched themselves on his chest, an incredibly hard set of knuckles making contact with his cheekbone.

The impact was so jarring that it sent Sam's head banging into the wooden planked floor with every hit.

"Sam!"

There was an enraged shout, and within seconds the weight was gone from his sternum.

Sam forced his eyes open and spotted Dean only a few feet away, delivering a sharp elbow to someone's face—their head snapped back from the impact.

There was so much noise in the room that the first shotgun blast was practically ignored.

The second one, however, was not.

The fighting slowly, _very_ slowly, stopped and all the men who were still standing (and still conscious) looked over towards the bar.

The cook who'd been working in the back had appeared in front of the counter, a shotgun held tightly in his hands. His eyes passed over every single person in the place and finally settled on the apparent leader of the bikers—the guy who'd taken Sam to the floor, the guy that Dean had just elbowed.

"Ken, I want you and your boys gone before I get the highway patrol in here."

Ken wiped at the relentless stream of blood pouring from his obviously broken nose and gave a small nod.

Movement erupted all around him and Sam blinked slowly, trying to clear his vision.

"Sammy?" His brother's rough voice broke through and Sam blinked again. Dean had appeared at his side and was looking down at him with intense concern on his face. "You ok?"

"You just…couldn't walk away, dude."

There was suddenly a strong pair of hands against his back and Sam felt himself being pushed into a sitting position. "Come on, Sam. We gotta get outta here."

Before he knew how it happened, he was on his feet. Most of the men who were able to walk had cleared out and the gradual roar of motorcycles outside made the wooden floor of the bar vibrate.

"You boys ok?"

The voice of the cook rang out and Sam felt Dean nod as he draped Sam's arm across his shoulders. "Yeah, we're ok. Sorry about that."

"Wasn't your fault, I know you boys didn't start it."

"Nah man, I threw the first punch." Dean directed them towards the bar and stuck a hand into the pocket of his jeans.

Sam knew that his brother's poker winnings from a few nights before—somewhere around five hundred—were stashed in that pocket, and he wasn't at all surprised when Dean withdrew his hand and passed the wad of bills over to the supposed owner of the bar. "Sorry 'bout the mess."

The owner gave an appreciative nod and the two slowly started towards the exit, Dean supporting nearly all of his little brother's weight.

* * *

"You just…_couldn't _walk away."

The intense throbbing that had taken over Sam's entire head didn't look like it was going to ease up any time soon.

He had the headache to end all headaches.

Dean had informed him once in the car that the guy who'd tackled him in the bar had been wearing a set of brass knuckles on one of his hands, which was responsible for the bruised and battered skin on the younger man's face.

"Friggin' bastards, startin' crap like that." Dean was sitting gingerly on his bed, holding an old t-shirt to the bleeding skin under his left eye. The skin had been broken open brutally and would likely need stitches before the night was out.

Sam would be happy to do them.

If he could get his eyes to focus.

"Sammy, you ok?"

"Got a headache."

"I'll get you some ice." Dean pushed himself carefully to his feet. He seemed to pause for a moment, as if waiting for the room to stop spinning. "I'll get _us_ some ice." He amended.

"I feel like my eyeballs are gonna explode."

"You _look_ like your eyeballs are gonna explode."

There was the sound of the small freezer door opening and closing, and then Dean's footsteps as he moved back towards Sam's bed.

Sam opened his eyes and watched as Dean wrapped a chemical ice pack in a tiny towel before holding it out. Sam gave a small nod of thanks and took the ice, immediately moving it to rest against the bruised skin of his temple. "You wanna do your stitches now?"

"Nah, I'm fine."

"Dean, I swear to God—"

"Look Sammy, stop wiggin' out, it's just a flesh wound. Doesn't even need stitches."

"That's because you're too stubborn to let me put them in."

With an icepack of his own, Dean laid himself down at the end of Sam's bed; one leg hanging over the edge of the mattress, the other hooked over the footboard. He let out a very quiet groan the second the cold of the ice hit his skin.

Sam sighed. "You know, we still have that poltergeist to deal with."

"Yeah, I know."

A comfortable silence fell between them, both brothers simply letting themselves relax. Sam forced open the one eye that wasn't covered with an icepack and studied Dean's still form carefully; apart from the gash under his eye and the split lip, he was in relatively good shape. There was no concussion or rigid bleeding anywhere, thank God, and whatever pain the older man seemed to be in was manageable.

Sam swallowed hard, and said, "Hey…Dean?"

Dean didn't even move. "Hmm?"

"Thanks…for getting that guy off me earlier."

There was real emotion in Sam's voice, a genuine gratitude to his big brother for once again fending off the bullies.

Dean had done it so many times over the years, it was near impossible to keep track.

Sam was expecting some sort of sarcastic rejoinder, something about '_I got a big enough headache, dude, don't need a chick-flick moment to add to the misery_'. But instead, what Sam got was a very quiet and surprisingly heartfelt, "You're welcome, Sammy."

* * *

The Impala rumbled to a gentle curbside stop right outside of 2275 Amherst Avenue.

Dean put the car in park and sighed, leaning back in his seat and turning to look out the open passenger window. "Well…there it is."

"You wanna take the basement? I'll take the main floor?"

"Gotta love that it's a bungalow."

"It'll make things easier." There was a small duffle bag resting on the floor between Sam's feet and he reached down for it. After one swift yank of the zipper, he handed Dean four of the mojo bags. "Remember. North, South, East and West corners of the house."

Dean nodded. "Basement's finished, yeah?"

"Yeah, it's drywall."

"Good."

They both slid from the car, using the minimal beam from a nearby streetlight to open the trunk and look through the weapon's locker.

As usual, Dean took a casual look around before lifting the heavy wooden plank.

He grabbed a hammer from their toolbox and handed it to Sam, then picked up a crowbar for himself. It was something they'd done before, busting holes in drywall for a cleansing. Once again, Dean was reminded of the incident back in Lawrence, just over one year before.

Himself, Sam and Missouri—an incredibly spunky local psychic—barricading themselves in the Winchester childhood home and facing off against two spirits. One poltergeist and another spirit that in the end had turned out to be their mother.

A figure completely engulfed in flames.

Dean remembered the sensations well. How it felt looking into his mother's blue eyes and hearing the sound of her voice, a voice that he remembered in little pieces of from his childhood.

The most he remembered from that childhood were flashes, memories that he could hardly piece together. H remembered her leaning over him in his bed, tucking his blankets tightly around him as her soft blonde hair tickled his face. He remembered how she smelled—it didn't matter how old he got, the smell of coconuts always made his heart hurt.

He cleared his throat roughly, grabbing hold of one of the sawed-offs and passing it to Sam. "You take the shotgun."

"What 'bout you?"

"I'll be fine, just take it."

Shotguns wouldn't be much use against a poltergeist, but it made the older brother feel better to know that Sam at least had it, just in case.

Their goal was to be in and out as fast as possible, so Dean mentally set his watch after closing the trunk and starting across the darkened front lawn of the house.

He could feel Sam following closely behind him and he focused on that as the two of them climbed the front steps, taking them two at a time.

The front door (which was still criss-crossed with yellow crime scene tape) was predictably locked and Dean motioned for Sam to move forward. He did quickly, leaning down in front of the door and maneuvering his lockpick while Dean kept watch.

The rest of Amherst Avenue was quiet seeing as how it was just after midnight. There was only one house with lights on and it was a far distance down the street, so neither brother was overly concerned with being spotted by a nosey neighbor.

With a satisfying click, Sam made it through the lock and gently pushed the door open. The darkness in the house was absolute and Dean immediately pulled his flashlight from the waistband of his jeans.

The small beam of light broke through the inky blackness and they moved into the foyer swiftly, Sam carefully closing the front door behind them.

Dean knew his brother, and their training, well enough to know that the second the front door had latched closed Sam had raised the shotgun. They moved through the quiet house without a sound and when Dean's flashlight swept across the door leading to the basement, he gave Sam a nudge and pointed to it.

Sam followed his brother's direction and gave a short nod.

They'd decided earlier on that silence was their best bet and so Dean forfeited verbal speech for well-known hand signals.

Sam watched without even blinking.

_Keep sharp. Meet back here in fifteen minutes._

Sam nodded again and started slowly backing towards the stairs, while Dean carefully pulled open the basement door and started down the stairs.

If the main floor of the house had been dark, it was _nothing_ compared to the basement. As he stepped off the very last stair, he could feel the sole of his boots practically sink into the soft and plushy carpet.

For the shortest instant, he was randomly worried about leaving muddy footprints…

And then he came to his senses.

He could hear Sam's slow and deliberate footsteps upstairs, the occasional creak of a floorboard reminding him that his brother was only a shout away.

_Yeah, right, screw him being a shout away…I want him right __here_.

Dean stuck his free hand into the right pocket of his jeans and pulled out one of the four mojo bags that Sam had given him.

_Sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get the hell outta here._

Dean found the West corner of the house quickly; sticking the handle of his flashlight in between his teeth, he grasped the tire iron tightly and sent the butt end crashing into the drywall.

The hole left behind was the perfect size for the smaller-than-usual mojo bag and Dean stuffed it in swiftly.

The placement of the following two mojo bags went just as smoothly and it wasn't until he raised the crowbar to make the fourth and final hole that he heard it.

A single shotgun blast followed by a loud _thud_.

_Sammy._

The crowbar hit the wall ferociously and Dean took off running the moment the linen of the bag had disappeared into the drywall.

He took the basement steps two at a time, dropping the tire iron and pulling his flashlight from between his teeth.

Erupting from the basement door out into the front hallway, Dean narrowed his eyes and took a quick look around. There was no clown-footed little brother in sight.

"Sammy?"

Dean's voice echoed throughout across the main floor but there was no reply.

His worry and anxiousness finally got the best of him and the attempts at remaining as quiet as possible were completely shot to hell.

Nearing the end of the hall, he turned his head to the left and took in the living room and swinging doorway of the kitchen.

"Sam?"

His heart nearly jumped into his throat when he heard it.

The earth-shattering crash of glass followed by a tormented cry.

He was moving before he was even aware of it, bursting through the kitchen's swinging door. And there, lying on the tiled floor surrounded by broken glass and small pools of blood, was Sam.

Sam's eyes widened and he reached out pathetically with one hand. "D-Dean."

Practically sliding across the floor, Dean fell to his knees at Sam's side. He nearly threw up at the sight of the steak knife that was buried, up to the handle, in Sam's side.

Dean pressed a hand gingerly to his brother's side and tried to ignore Sam's pained cry. "What the hell happened?"

"T-the poltergeist." Sam was sickeningly pale and sweat was beading on his forehead. Dean couldn't even begin to guess how much blood the kid had lost. "C-came outta…nowhere."

"You hurt anywhere else?"

"I think m-my shoulder's dislocated."

Tearing his eyes away from his injured brother, Dean took a quick look around the kitchen. His first instinct was to run—grab Sam, run and never look back. But naturally, Sam had to disagree with everything he said.

With a trembling hand, Sam somehow reached into his pocket and pulled out a cleansing bag. "L-last one." He tried to smile. "Made the h-hole and everything."

"Sammy we gotta get you outta here—"

"Place the bag…first."

"Sam—"

"Dean."

The two locked eyes and the unabashed pleading in Sam's eyes was enough to end the argument.

Giving Sam's uninjured shoulder a gentle squeeze, Dean pushed himself to his feet and looked around the kitchen again. He spotted the hole Sam had made in the far corner beside the refrigerator and he started towards it.

The 'geist had other plans.

A truly enormous toaster was yanked from its spot on the counter and Dean had to duck to avoid it as it went sailing past him. He spat a few colorful curses and launched himself across the kitchen floor, landing unceremoniously in the far corner.

The bag fit perfectly into the small hole and as soon as it disappeared from view a great white light completely lit up the kitchen. It was blinding and Dean had to shield his eyes—he could even hear the agonized shriek of the poltergeist.

As soon as the light faded, Dean was back on his feet and was rushing back over to Sam. The younger brother sent a tight and pained smile; he was even paler than before. "Guess we c-can hit the road now, huh?"

Dean couldn't even reply. He had no time for humor.

Sam must've realized how panicked Dean was because the smile slowly faded from his face. He slowly reached out a blood covered hand and wrapped his fingers around Dean's wrist, halting his brother's frenzied movements. "Dean, you gotta p-pull the knife out."

"Sam—"

"I can't stand it, Dean, please."

"_I_ pull it out and you're gonna keep on bleeding." He swallowed hard. "The full med kit's back at the motel, remember?"

"I'll be f-fine."

Every single cell in Dean's body was screaming, shouting warnings at him so loudly that there was a ringing in his ears. It was basic medical knowledge, something he'd had drilled into him at an early age—_if someone suffers a stab wound, blood flows easier once the offending object is removed. _He knew the second he pulled the knife free from Sam's side that the bleeding would be relentless.

His instincts as a hunter were telling him to leave the blade exactly where it was, _at least_ until he had access to a completely fully stocked first aid kit.

But one look at Sam's agonized and pleading face and his instincts as a brother were telling him to do whatever he could to ease his little brother's pain.

"Dean? Please?"

As always, _hunter_ and _big brother_ clashed.

And again, as always, _big brother_ won.

With Sam still sprawled down on the tiled floor, Dean quickly fought his way out of his jacket and then out of his button down shirt. "Ok, Sammy—" He balled the shirt up in his hand and held it up so Sam could see it. "Just relax, man, ok?"

Sam gave a tight nod and then closed his eyes, letting his head fall back down to the tile.

Dean took a deep breath and reached across. Sam hissed expectedly when Dean's hand made contact with the handle and he had to fight the natural instinct to pull away.

There were a thousand things he could've said—_'Get ready, Sammy'… 'On the count of three'. _But he knew from personal experience how useless those words were. When a person's in pain, all they want is for that pain to stop.

And so Dean didn't say a word.

In less than a second he'd tightened his grip on the knife's handle and pulled it free from Sam's flesh, ignoring the slight squelching sound and the uncontrollable cry that broke free from Sam's lips. Any color that had been left in the younger man's face seemed to drain away, leaving nothing but a truly sickly pallor behind.

As expected, the second the blade was pulled free a relentless stream of blood started soaking through Sam's many layers and pooling on the kitchen floor. Dean forced down his sudden panic and pushed his balled up shirt against the wound, applying pressure. "Sammy?"

Tears were leaking from Sam's closed eyes. "Jesus Christ, Dean, it hurts."

"I know it hurts, you're doin' good Sammy." The sickly warmth of Sam's blood was already soaking through the shirt. Dean came to a quick decision. "Ok, Sam, come on, can you get up?"

Sam merely nodded, doing what he could to help get to himself to his feet.

Every gasp or barely contained whimper set Dean's teeth on edge, but he refused to slow; the intense light from the cleansing was _bound_ to have been seen by someone, regardless of how late it was. They needed to get themselves into the car and as far away from Amherst Avenue as possible, as _quickly_ as possible.

Carefully, the two brothers made their way down the hallway and out the front door, both men trying desperately to keep the quickly fading Sam from stumbling.

Dean's eyes and ears were sharp, looking both up and down the street for any sign of curious neighbors wondering what all the ruckus was about. But something was working in their favor because the street was just as silent and deserted as it had been when they'd first arrived.

The sight of the cherry-black Impala parked down at the curb almost brought tears of relief to the older man's eyes.

Sam could feel himself slipping, falling into the dark abyss that seemed to be waiting just behind his eyes.

It was calling to him, tempting him with the promise of peaceful silence…a good long rest where the pain he was feeling wouldn't matter. A place where he wouldn't be _able_ to feel it.

There was only one thing stopping him from letting his eyes slip closed.

_Dean_.

He could hear deep timbre of his brother's voice somewhere off in the distance, but what he was saying—the words and the meaning behind them—Sam had no idea. It was simply a sound; a deep vibration that Sam could feel in his chest. A sound that had held a permanent place in his heart for as long as he could remember.

It was a voice that had read him bedtime stories…a voice that had always been strong but encouraging whenever Sam struggled, muscles quivering, through the very last few of his one hundred push-ups.

Along with many other things—the rumble of a powerful engine, the relentless flow of wind, the pounding of rain on a motel roof—that voice was the soundtrack to his life.

If Dean was talking to him, Sam would do whatever he had to do to keep on listening.

Even if he was too far gone to understand a single word.

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

That was the first thing he heard.

Beeping was _never_ good.

Sam awoke slowly, blinking his eyes against the too bright light. His entire left side hurt and he tried to raise his hand only to find that it wouldn't move. He looked down and saw that he couldn't move it because it was already in use.

Dean was sitting beside his bed, his head resting on the mattress near Sam's hip, his fingers curled around his little brother's wrist tightly. Dean was facing him and Sam could see that he was fast asleep, dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked sickly pale and as worn out as Sam himself felt.

Pulling his gritty eyes away from the still form of his brother, Sam took a sluggish look around. He'd already known from unfortunate experience that he was in a hospital, hell, he'd known that the second he'd become aware. Exactly how long he'd been there? That was a whole other story.

He was trying to make sense of what happened, trying to hash out the very last thing he remembered.

He remembered Dean making his way down into the basement and the sudden flare of uneasiness he felt at being alone on the main floor. He remembered entering the kitchen, not even hearing the cutlery drawer supernaturally slide open. Before he knew it a white hot pain just under his ribs had nearly blinded him and he'd fallen, heavily, to the floor.

There'd been an enormous crystal bowl sitting on the counter and Sam had knocked it to the floor when he'd grabbed desperately and blindly, looking for something to stop his fall.

And he remembered the horrified look on Dean's face when he'd come running into the kitchen.

Things had started getting hazy shortly after the knife had been pulled free. Sam couldn't even remember getting into the car.

Like always, Dean seemed to be directly tuned in to Sam's very being. He stirred quietly in his chair and when his eyes fluttered open, they flew directly up to his little brother's face. "Sammy?"

Sam slowly nodded. "Hey." His voice was barely above a whisper so he swallowed hard.

"How you feelin'?"

"Tired. Little sore." Dean sat up, self-consciously removing his fingers from around Sam's wrist; the younger man tried to ignore the sudden pang at the loss of physical contact. "Where…are we?"

"Michael Reese Hospital, in Chicago." Dean seemed to recognize the question in Sam's eyes because he added, "Nearly three days. It was…kinda touch-n-go for a while."

There was _real_ emotion in Dean's face, real concern in his voice. But it was only because Sam knew him better than anyone else that he could recognize it. Dean Winchester was a master when it came to hiding his feelings and his emotions from the outside world—emotions could lead to weakness…weakness could lead to loss…and loss could lead to insanity. Why in the world would Dean _ever_ want to let himself be that vulnerable?

He wasn't wired to be vulnerable.

"Doc said you were pretty lucky. Couple inches higher, the blade could've taken out one of your lungs."

The pain in Sam's side suddenly flared at the thought and he winched, draping an arm protectively over his middle.

"Jesus Christ, Sam—" Dean sighed, running a hand down his roughly unshaven face.

"What?"

"What the hell d'you mean, _what_?"

Sam frowned slightly, settling further into his pillows. He was already feeling tired and he could feel sleep clouding his vision once again but he pushed it down.

There would be plenty of time to sleep in that friggin' bed, he could feel it.

"Dean…man—" Sam took a deep breath, watching as his older brother lowered his head dejectedly. "What's wrong with you?"

"You actually need to ask?"

"It was an accident, Dean. I messed up, wasn't payin' attention—"

"That's crap and you know it."

Sam slowly shook his head. "No, it's not. I went into the kitchen, took a look around—I didn't even hear the drawer open."

"I should've been there with you watchin' your back."

The heavy regret that was in Dean's voice sounded too much like a physical pain and Sam sighed, waving his hand to get his brother's attention. "Dean. Hey." When Dean met his gaze, Sam sighed again. "You know how you don't let me worry about _you_ when _you_ get hurt on the job?"

"That's different."

"How?"

"Because I'm older."

That was the typical Dean response to practically every question Sam could ever ask. It had been that way since they were kids and he should've known then that it was never going to change. Some things in the world just _couldn't_ change and Dean being the oldest (not to mention a complete smartass) was one of them.

"Don't think you got the corner on worrying about your brother, Dean."

An intense gratitude flashed in the older man's eyes at those words and it was only because Sam knew him almost as well as he knew himself that he spotted it.

Dean's eyes were always expressive, whether he wanted them to be or not.

Dancing with laughter, shimmering with pain, or gleaming with appreciation whenever a pretty girl in a short skirt walked by.

Dean may have been like a steel trap when it came to holding in emotions and locking them away but his hazels weren't so easily reigned in.

Sam hadn't been expecting any kind of response to his words. After all, he knew that his brother wasn't big on sentimentality or _chick-flick moments_, and that was ok, he accepted that.

So when Dean reached across and curled his fingers back around Sam's wrist, giving a gentle and brotherly squeeze?

Well, a second flash of gratitude took over a pair of hazel eyes. Only _that _time, they were Sam's.

_END_


	5. H

**Author's Note:** Hey all! Ok, so I'm on a bit of a roll I guess. I was originally going to post "G" and "H" together but seeing as how the last one was so long I decided to split them up...and since they were done together, I figured I'd get the second one posted as well. I hope that you enjoy this entry! I'm still in the process of responding to reviews, so you'll probably be getting random messages from me over the next couple days--my work schedule is pretty brutal so it may take me a while to get things done, but I'll try and stay on top of it. Thanks!

**Disclaimer:** Yeah, right, don't make me laugh.

* * *

**H is for Hypodynamia**

* * *

Hypodynamia (hy·po·dy·na·mia): loss of strength

* * *

_Enid, Oklahoma_

_1995_

The mud covered lump that was standing in the doorway looked purely miserable and Dean was torn between being angry and laughing his ass off.

He'd just been heading out to the car to drive and pick Sammy up from soccer practice when the kid had pushed his way into the small motel room completely covered, from head to toe, in sludge. There were smears across his face and his eyes were peering out and practically _begging_ his older brother to bypass all of the obvious jokes.

"So you fell down?" Sam nodded wretchedly and Dean smirked. "How many times?"

"Dean-"

"No, seriously. How many times?"

The kid sighed. "Only once."

"Once?" He studied Sam intently, then, "Well…did you _roll_ _around_ in it or somethin'?"

"What? No!"

"Sammy, you fall in a puddle of mud you get a _knee_ dirty. You got _everything_ dirty."

The younger brother sheepishly raised a hand and scratched at his face, accomplishing nothing but leaving behind a fresh mark of dirt across his cheek.

Dean's smirk melted away as something clunked into place.

"Was it that damn Richardson kid again?"

The look of horrified embarrassment that crossed Sam's face was all the proof Dean needed. He spat a particularly colorful curse—which just made Sam fidget more—and stood from his bed, tossing down his muscle car magazine.

He pointed at his little brother. "You're gonna show me where the little bastard is right now."

"Dean-"

"Right now, Sam."

"There's no point. Dad said we're leaving tomorrow morning anyway."

"Doesn't make a difference."

Dean grabbed his sneakers and bent to slip them on. "Dean, please?" The quiet plea that reached his ears made him pause, eyes trained on the carpet, waiting. In his peripheral, he saw Sam shift uncomfortably. "I just wanna have a shower and forget it. Ok?"

"Sammy, the kid deserves to have his ass handed to him-"

"Dad said no more fighting, remember?"

"This isn't _fighting_, this is teaching."

At sixteen, Dean was capable of taking care of himself and _more _than capable of taking care of Sam. His little brother was a magnet for trouble; whether it was bullies, practical jokes or supposed harmless teasing, it didn't matter. If Sammy found himself _trouble free_, the universe always worked to rectify the situation.

That's where Dean came in.

Dean was his little brother's nuclear bomb. If something upset him or hurt him, Dean went in and laid waste to it.

So was the way of the world.

And so was the way of big and little brothers.

"Dean. Please?"

_And_ so was the way of folding like a house of cards when baby brother spoke in that tiny voice.

He released a heavy breath and ran a hand through his short hair, his temper slowly cooling in response to Sammy's plea.

After a moment of silence, he said, "Go get cleaned up, Sammy."

"Dean-"

"I'm not goin' anywhere."

"You promise?"

For the shortest instant, Dean considered rolling his eyes. But there was a voice in the back of his head, a feeling in his chest, and both were reminding him that when Sam asked him to promise something, he was to do it without sarcasm or frustration.

Promises were important, no matter how old he got.

"Yeah, I promise." Raising his head, he locked eyes with his mud-covered brother and sent him a small, but warm smile. A tiny smile appeared on Sam's face, too. "Just go take a shower and for god sake watch where you're steppin'."

Sam nodded and toed off his shoes, practically scurrying across the room to his bed. Dean watched over his shoulder as the little guy grabbed a pair of sweats and a t-shirt from the end of his bed using only his thumb and forefinger, holding the clothing as far away from him as he could in an effort to keep them clean.

When the bathroom door clicked shut and the water started a few seconds later, Dean lowered himself back onto his bed and sighed.

Even with Sam's best efforts, there was still a small trail of muddy footprints leading across the room and into the bathroom.

It was so randomly hilarious that Dean couldn't help but laugh.

_Only good times to be had in Oklahoma._

****************

_Jonesboro, Arkansas_

_May 2__nd__, 2000_

Sam woke up lethargic and irritable.

Lethargic because it felt like he'd just fallen asleep only moments before, and irritable because—

"Dean!"

He yelled pathetically, his voice hoarse from sleep. Kicking pointlessly and with very bad aim at the hand that kept swatting his blanket-covered leg, Sam tried to squirm away across the bed. "Cut it out, man."

"Come on, Sammy, rise and shine."

Sam felt his leg swatted again, and with one more final kick, he burrowed his way deeper into the warm blankets and under a pillow to escape. "Go 'way."

He heard Dean laugh in amusement. "It's nearly eleven, come on, you gotta get up."

Sam only groaned in response, the sound muffled under the pillow. It was simply a groan but he knew Dean would understand it for what it was—a question, a pained _'why_?'.

"'Cause dad's due back tonight and we have crap we gotta do."

There was another groan. This one asking '_what crap_?'.

"Well, I wanna go for breakfast, I'm starvin', and…oh yeah, it's your birthday."

Lifting the pillow just slightly, Sam grumbled, "Then shouldn't I be gettin' breakfast in bed?"

"Sorry kid, I only do breakfast in bed in…uh…_special situations_-" There was a smirk in Dean's voice and Sam nearly groaned again. "And you're not my type."

"Yeah, thank God for that."

"Don't be a smartass."

Sam flung aside the pillow in frustration and tiredly scowled up at his brother. "I'm tired, Dean, so a smartass is all you're gonna get."

"What's your problem?"

"My idiot brother who wakes me up, _on my birthday_, before noon."

Dean snorted and gave Sam's leg one more swat before standing up and reaching his arms above his head.

Shelly McAllister, Dean's most recent _special person_, had giggled when she'd seen him stretch like that. When he'd asked her what she was laughing at, she said that he must've been a cat in his past life because only cats got that kind of euphoria on their faces after stretching.

Dropping his arms back down to his sides, Dean plonked down onto his own bed and reached down to grab his hiking boots. "Get your lazy ass up and into the shower, Sammy." He said good-naturedly. "Pancakes and/or French toast in twenty."

"With ketchup?"

Dean made a face. "I dunno who the hell eats pancakes or French toast with _ketchup, _but yeah, whatever you want."

"Ketchup on French toast is good."

"But on _pancakes_?"

"Eww, no, _syrup_ on pancakes."

Nodding his head in sudden pride, Dean smiled. "Good boy. Get the hell outta bed."

The brothers were approaching the one week mark of being on their own, their dad having gone one state over to deal with a renegade Tommyknocker—a goofy little green creature that was said to live in mines, known to warn workers of impending cave ins. Only the Tommyknocker in Louisiana was apparently _causing_ cave ins.

_Oh well, there's one in every bunch._

Before leaving, their dad had asked the boys if they were interested in going along. Dean had immediately said that he wasn't, knowing full well that the hunt wouldn't be finished in time to celebrate Sammy's seventeenth birthday.

So against his usual routine, he'd opted out, preferring to stay in Arkansas with his brother so Sam could have a quiet birthday, spent the way he wanted it spent.

And apparently, the lazy bum wanted to spend it _sleeping._

"Sam! Out of bed!"

When the brothers walked through the door of Maggie's Diner half an hour later, Dean smiled at both the wonderful fragrance of pancakes _and_ the little tinkling of the bell above the door.

The little bell was ridiculously fantastic and it made him grin every time.

There was one open booth in the very back and they made a beeline for it; Dean sliding in one side and Sam on the other, banging his knee off the center pole of the table. _Ouch._

There was no need to study the menu, they both knew it practically off by heart.

The owner of the diner, Maggie, waddled over to their table, an order pad in her hands and a welcoming smile on her face. "Good morning, boys."

Dean sent her one of his thousand watt smiles in return. "Morning."

"What can I get for you?"

"I'll uh…have a coffee, black…and a short stack."

Sam cleared his throat lightly. "I'll have a short stack, too, with an orange juice, please."

Her pen whizzing across the small paper, she nodded. "Anything else?"

And then, at once, both brothers exclaimed, "Syrup."

Her smile grew at their enthusiasm.

"Thanks, Maggie." Dean made eye contact with the older woman and discreetly sent her a knowing wink. She returned the gesture, as if to say, "_All taken care of"_, and then retreated back behind the counter.

Thankfully, still in a sleep-induced stupor, Sam didn't notice the exchange.

"So…you feelin' any older?"

Sam shrugged and rested his hands on the surface of the table. "Nah, not really."

"Well, this is the year, y'know." Dean grinned again, mirroring his brother's pose. His voice softened considerably so that only Sam could hear. "Seventeen is the year of the shotgun, Sammy. Time for your first sawed-off."

"Yeah?"

"Dad said somethin' about it over the phone last night. Probably be somethin' for the three of us to do together when he gets back tonight."

Sam nodded. "Cool."

"Shotgun arts and crafts, Sammy."

Dean was excited.

He couldn't help it.

He remembered in vivid detail his own seventeenth birthday; the age at which he'd finally become a more permanent fixture in the family business, accompanying his dad on more hunts and taking point more often.

He'd gotten his own first sawed-off at a relatively young age and his very first hunt had been just shy of his thirteenth birthday.

As the older brother, Dean had paved the way for Sam in terms of how quickly he was introduced to certain things in the hunting world.

For example, Dean had constructed his first sawed-off at the tender age of eleven…Sam was made to wait until seventeen.

Dean's first hunt happened just before he turned thirteen…Sam's was when he turned fifteen.

Dean had read his dad's journal, cover to cover, by the time he was twelve…Sam wasn't even allowed to _look_ at the damn thing until he made it halfway through his teens.

Unbeknownst to their father, the sneaky little monster had snagged the journal when he was eight years old…read it, every single word…and then had practically thrown it in Dean's face demanding answers. Dean had explained everything as best he could at the time and in typical big brother fashion had threatened bodily harm if Sammy ever spilled the beans.

_That_ little nugget was still just a secret between brothers. Their dad would never know.

"Shotgun _arts and crafts_?" The younger man quirked an eyebrow, smiling slightly. "Could you _be_ a bigger nerd about it?"

"Probably."

"Yeah, I bet."

"It's a big deal, dude."

"Can I start taking point every once in a while?"

Dean snorted incredulously. "I don't think so."

"What? Why?"

"Because I said so."

Sam's colorful response was interrupted as Maggie returned with their drinks so he settled for simply scowling across the table. Dean completely ignored the dirty look, giving his black coffee an unnecessary stir.

Sam stared.

"Why do you stir it if you're not adding anything to it?"

Setting the coffee covered spoon down onto the edge of his napkin, Dean frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Your coffee. Why stir it if you don't add milk or sugar?"

"Are you _seriously_ askin' me a stupid question like that?"

"Fine. Be weird, I don't care."

Maggie passed the table again and set a straw down in front of the younger brother, smiling apologetically. "Sorry, sweetie. Forgot to give you your straw."

Sam smiled politely back. "No worries. Thanks."

As the waitress shuffled away, Dean pointed at the straw as Sam put it in his juice. "And _I'm_ weird? You're puttin' a straw in your orange juice."

"So? What's wrong with that?"

Throwing Sam's words back at him, he said, "Fine. Be weird."

"Shut up, Dean."

It was only a few minutes later that Maggie returned to their table again, setting down two plates of pancakes.

Dean watched in amusement as Sam's eyes widened—stuck, right in the middle of the small stack of pancakes on his plate, was a tiny little candle, the flame dancing merrily.

"I know it's no cake." He said softly, shrugging one of his shoulders. "But…y'know..."

Eyes still wide, Sam looked up and met his brother's gaze.

Dean swallowed slightly, secretly embarrassed at the girly display. "It's lame, isn't it?"

"What? No! No, it's not lame." Sam blinked, sending a quick glance to Maggie before carefully blowing out the candle.

Maggie grinned and took the melted candle when Sam passed it to her. She sent Dean another wink and then left them alone.

For a moment, there was silence at the table—Sam staring at his pancakes and Dean sitting there quietly in his seat, watching the kid's every movement and facial expression.

He hadn't been sure about the candle-stuck-in-the-pancakes thing, but it had been instinct and he'd gone with it. After all, he didn't have the option of buying cake; the only bakery in the small town used coconut oil in everything they made and Sam was allergic to coconut.

So, as he usually did in such situations…he'd improvised.

And then Sam raised his eyes, smiling genuinely at his brother. "Thanks, Dean."

Happy, Dean gave a shy grin and looked down. "'Welcome."

Yeah, ok, so it had been a little lame, but that was ok. It was Sammy's birthday and if that wasn't an excuse for a little sappiness, than Dean didn't know what was.

For his brother? He could let himself be sappy once a year.

**************

_Columbus, New York_

_1998_

"Sam! For Christ sake-"

"I'm trying-"

"_No, _you're _not!"_

"Dean, it's not like this is easy-"

"Well, it's not rocket science either!" Dean pointed flamboyantly out the windshield at the dark and deserted parking lot. "You hit the gas, she goes…you hit the brake, she stops."

"You're _such_ a jerk."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch."

Sam nearly growled. "You wanna drive!"

"Yeah, I'd freakin' love to!"

The car came to a screeching stop, Dean having to brace himself to keep from smashing his face into the dash.

For a few seconds there was only the rumbling of the engine idling. The silence in the car was tense and frustrated…

And they'd only been driving for half an hour.

Finally with his eyes still looking forward, Sam asked, "Do you know why I asked you to do this?"

Dean released a breath, adjusting himself uneasily in the passenger seat. "No, I don't."

Sam never thought he'd say the words out loud, but desperate times call for desperate measures. He himself was getting angry and if the clenched jaw was anything to go by, so was Dean. As much as he'd wanted to keep the small admission to himself, he knew he needed to explain; he needed to explain to his big brother why he'd been pulled into the enormous black death trap that the beloved Impala had turned into the very moment Sam had slid in behind the wheel.

"Because driving with dad makes me nervous."

Dean turned to look at him, his eyes surprised. His face was neutral but Sam could see the slight astonishment in his brother's familiar features. "Nervous? What d'you mean?"

"I dunno, he just-" Sam shrugged, looking down at his folded hands in his lap. "-makes me nervous."

"And I don't?"

"No, you don't."

"Why not?"

Sam shrugged again, finally turning his head and meeting Dean's eyes. "'Cause it's you, I guess. 'Cause I know you won't flip out on me."

There was small flash of guilt in the older boy's face and he sighed, raising a hand and rubbing his temple soothingly. "I'm sorry, Sammy." Dean eventually said in a quiet voice. "Guess uh-" He chuckled. "Guess I'm nervous, too."

"I really _am_ trying, Dean-"

"No, I know you are." Seeming to relax lazily in his seat, Dean let out a breath. "I mean, I guess you _are_ kinda young to be doin' this-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa…young?" Sam raised an eyebrow incredulously. "I'm fifteen-"

"Exactly, you're young to be drivin'."

"Dean, you first got behind the wheel of this thing when you were, what, twelve?"

"_Thirteen_. And that's not the point. It was different for me."

"Why?"

"'Cause I'm older." Dean smirked over at his little brother—who's only response was an incredulous snort. "Drivin' makes you nervous _now_? You shoulda seen me when I was thirteen."

"_You_ were nervous driving?"

Dean nodded. "Damn right I was. The idea of drivin' was intense, but drivin' _dad's car_?" He glanced over at Sam, making a face. "I was friggin' terrified."

Sam laughed.

Loudly.

And he couldn't _stop_ laughing, no matter how hard he tried. He giggled even louder when Dean reached over and smacked his arm, giving him a dirty look. "Shut up, Sam."

"I didn't think you were _friggin' terrified_ of anything, Dean."

"Dude." He frowned in irritation. "I was thirteen!"

"Yeah, whatever."

"Ok, you know what? You wanna be a little _bitch_, get the hell outta the car, I'll drive-"

"No!"

"Then stop snickerin' and hit the damn gas!"

And so, Sam did just that.

The Impala took off like a shot across the parking lot…and Sam very nearly started giggling again when in his peripheral vision he spotted Dean's hand snake along the door, grabbing the handle in a white-knuckled death grip.

Sam may have been perfectly at ease with Dean sitting in the passenger seat…but Dean's comfort level with the little dude behind the wheel?

Yeah, not so much.

******************

_Lawrence, Massachusetts_

_Late 2000_

Dean felt like he was going to explode.

The small little exam room at Lawrence General Hospital was far too small to contain his quickly growing temper, and as Sam let out a pained gasp from his seat on the exam table, Dean brought his teeth together with an audible snap.

The kid was leaning forward, his arms wrapped protectively around his stomach.

"Dean, it hurts."

"I know, Sammy, I know it hurts." He curled a hand soothingly around the back of Sam's neck, giving a gentle squeeze. "Hang in there, the nurse'll be back soon."

"When?"

"In the next five minutes or I'm huntin' the snooty bitch down myself-"

"No!" Sam's head snapped up, his tear-filled eyes looking imploringly into Dean's. "Stay."

The agonized look on Sam's face made the older man's chest ache and he nodded, squeezing Sam's neck again. "Just breathe through it."

Seeming to believe that his older brother wasn't going anywhere, Sam hung his head again and tried his best to take a deep breath.

Dean knew Sam well enough to see the pain he was in, well enough to _feel_ it himself. He once again mentally cursed at himself, making a secret vow to kick his brother's ass once he was feeling better.

"You should've stayed behind me like I friggin' told you to, Sam-"

"Not…the time, Dean."

"Not the time, huh? Funny, I was thinkin' it was the perfect time-"

Sam grunted painfully. "It's not that bad."

"Yeah, right. Tell me, Sammy, can you spell _bullshit_?"

"I don't know. Can _you_ spell _hypocrite_?"

"I know I can spell _pain in the ass-"_

"Yeah, me too. D E A N-"

The curtain was whipped to the side and the portly nurse, that Dean not-so-secretly wanted to tell right off, waltzed into their space. "How are we feeling?"

Dean moved closer to Sam's side, his hand moving to rest on his brother's back, his voice tight as he fought to control his fury, "I thought you were gonna give him something for the pain?"

"I'm just waiting on the doctor's orders-"

"Well get the doctor in here, then."

Sam whispered a warning, "Dean."

"He's been sittin' here for an hour and a half, he's sore as hell."

The nurse gave a stern look to the older man, but to the younger she sent a truly apologetic stare. "I'm sorry about the wait, sweetheart. I promise it won't be too much longer."

Sam sent her a pained smile and nodded his head. "Th…thanks."

"Can I get you anything else while you're waiting?"

"Peace and quiet would be nice."

The nurse moved her glare over to Dean and was about to snark back when Sam interrupted. "Thanks…but we're fine."

She took the hint and left the room, pointedly whooshing the curtain closed again.

"Miserable old broad."

Sam shook his head slightly and let out a breath. "You're somethin' else."

"Me? She's the one with the problem."

"Dean-"

"I mean, leavin' you sittin' here like this. For all we know your damn ribs are broken."

The younger man shifted slightly, a test, and barely held in a yelp. "Don't think they're broken."

"It's all that friggin' nurse's fault, Sammy, I'm tellin' you. Makin' you wait. Maybe I should mess around with some of their stuff, huh?"

"Don't-"

"Take all the tongue depressors out, lick 'em all, then put 'em all back."

"Dean!"

He sighed, shifting his stance. "I'm tellin' you, Sammy…it'd make you feel better."

"No, it would make _you_ feel better."

All the older man could do was smile, placing his hand on Sam's back again.

Dean didn't care what he had to do, Sam would _never_ stand between him and something else again. It was never the little brother's job to be the shield.

The only job Sam had? Was to be _shielded_. That was it.

In all his life he'd never been more furious. The panic he'd felt in his chest when Sam had been struck, when he'd cried out, when he'd fallen to the ground completely motionless? Dean would rather feel pain himself than have to watch that happen again.

He'd rather rip his heart out and _stomp_ on it than watch Sam get hurt defending him.

"Hey…Sam?"

The kid slowly raised his head, his eyes expectant.

Dean leaned just a fraction closer.

"If you ever pull that crap again? Taking point and pushin' me outta the way? I swear to God, I'll kick your ass myself."

For a moment, Sam looked completely bewildered.

"D'you hear me?"

After blinking a few times, Sam nodded silently. The agreement was good enough for the time being.

As far as Dean was concerned, the big brother sandbox was his turf. And he _always_ defended what was his. Whether it be firearms, muscle cars or pain in the ass little brothers.

_Dammit, I really wanna lick those tongue depressors._

And sometimes? He defended what was his with the mindset of a twelve year old.

****************

_Outside of Cold Oak, South Dakota_

_May 17__th__, 2007_

_Remember know when we were little? And you couldn't have been more than five? You just started askin' questions._

_How come we didn't have a mom._

_Why do we always have to move around?_

_Where'd dad go?_

_He'd take off for days at a time._

_I remember I begged you to quit askin', Sammy. 'Man, you don't wanna know.'_

_I just wanted you to be a kid. Just for a little while longer._

_I always tried to protect you. Keep you safe? Dad didn't even have to tell me. It was just always my responsibility, y'know? _

_It's like I had one job._

_I had __one__ job._

_And I screwed it up. _

_I blew it._

_And for that, I'm sorry._

_I guess that's what I do. I let down the people I love. I let dad down. And now I'm just supposed to let you down, too?_

_How can I? How am I supposed to live with that?_

_What am I supposed to do? Sammy? _

_What am I supposed to do?_

The Impala tore down the back road, almost completely shrouded in darkness. Gravel and stones sprayed in every direction as the car slid, being pushed to its very limits.

The engine roared.

There was one man sitting in the car, when usually, there were two.

He'd been a big brother up until the day before, up until the Demon had effectively taken the role away from him…by taking _Sam_ away from him. His world, his purpose embodied, was lying on a dirty mattress in a darkened hovel with a hole in his back and every cell in Dean's body was screaming for retribution.

His temper had no fuse. The nuclear bomb that was Dean's anger hadn't exploded…it had _im_ploded…scattering every single part of himself, of the man he'd been.

Sitting in the cabin with Sam's still form splayed out in front of him had brought memories and thoughts from a long forgotten childhood screaming back into his consciousness with the force of a wrecking ball.

A miniature Sammy, covered head to toe in mud—eventually leaving muddy little footprints on the dingy motel carpet.

A small and truly pathetic excuse for a birthday candle sticking randomly from a stack of fluffy pancakes.

The feeling of the car's door handle held tightly in his hand as the Impala shot across the parking lot, a fifteen year old little brother behind the wheel.

The feeling in his skin as his hand curled around the back of Sam's neck, and the gentle squeeze, silently offering encouragement and comfort in the face of pain.

All the things that a big brother was—someone who nurtured…someone who celebrated…someone who taught…and someone who soothed.

All the things he was capable of, all the things he _knew_ he could do and do well.

The one thing he _couldn't _do, was _this_.

Finding a way to live without his brother. The one person he'd sworn to God himself he wouldn't let go of.

He wouldn't let go because he couldn't_._

_What am I supposed to do?_

Dean had asked the question for the first time in his life nearly desperate for guidance. Desperate for his brother's advice and gentle voice. But there was no answer to be had.

The crossroads were only a few miles away from the shack he'd holed himself up in.

Dean had absolutely no idea what he was _supposed_ to do.

He only knew what he was_ going_ to do.

_END_


	6. I and J

**I is for Imminent**

Imminent: about to happen; "imminent danger".

* * *

The air passing through the cracks in the run-down cabin was bitterly cold and a big part of his brain told him that he was shivering, but the rest of him just couldn't find the energy to care.

That was something he hadn't done in a long time. Care. He didn't have it in him like he used to. The very core of who he'd been, what he'd stood for, had been twisted beyond repair and he'd been that way for years.

For _five_ _long_ _years_.

That's how long it had been since he'd last smiled…_really_ and _truly _smiled.

That's how long it had been since he'd last heard his little brother's voice.

And for three of those five years, he'd spent every waking moment wishing to God he'd said _yes_.

The Croatoan virus hadn't really hit until the early fall of 2011, burning its way through New York and Philadelphia first before working it's way East across the country—Chicago, Detroit, Milwaukee, Kansas City…all completely destroyed, left in ruins.

The _economy_ didn't exist and money wasn't what mattered most anymore.

Since the virus, _safety_ and _security_ were the most important things and after spending weeks searching through the burning wreckage of Kansas City, Dean had quickly discovered that whether or not a person had safety and security depended entirely on two things; one, how many guns you were able to get your hands on…and two, whether or not you were willing to pull the trigger.

Dean Winchester was more than willing to pulling the trigger, and because of that people gravitated towards him.

The little band of survivors grew alarmingly fast and before he knew it, he'd had no choice but to look for some sort of permanent encampment—a place where a large group of people could settle and live, well under the radar of the army and any militia that passed through; looters were a problem, so were terrorists. It wasn't until he'd stumbled across the camp at Lake Chitaqua that things had started to fall into place.

About twenty-two miles West of Kansas City, Chitaqua was an abandoned youth camp that provided them with enough privacy and seclusion to set up shop without drawing attention to themselves.

Complete with cabins, showers, bathrooms, kitchens, mess halls and store sheds, the camp offered them shelter—a place to call their own. Within days there was a barbed wire fence surrounding the entire perimeter and those that could handle weapons started taking shifts guarding the few entrances in and out.

They scrounged food from wherever they could; run-down or abandoned grocery stores where the produce, dairy and breads were still edible...vacant houses or out of the way restaurants. Canned goods were hard to come by, as were hygiene products, but they made due with what they could get.

Over the months that followed the initial migration from the city into the camp, stragglers continued to come and go; people from other cities that had driven or hiked, soldiers that had fled from the iron fist of the army. Even Chuck, after some help from Castiel had eventually arrived, too. And no matter who crossed into their little safe haven, Dean was still looked at as the ultimate authority; the one who made the decisions, the one who took the shot when no one else would…the one who'd lost it all and had nothing left to lose.

Only the people that had known him from before the war had started knew of his one last living connection. The one person left in the world that, despite his fury, Dean missed to the point of chest pains.

_Sammy._

He still remembered sitting at that rickety old picnic table just an hour outside of River Pass, Colorado—Sam on one side, him on the other—two beer cans and take out containers on the table in between them. The atmosphere had been tense, the air awkward. There had been very little to say. Sam had apparently just _gotten over_ his demon blood addiction and despite the kid's reassurances and promises, Dean was still terrified. _So_ terrified in fact, that he'd risked their last hunt, too preoccupied with keeping an eye on his little brother's every move.

It was then, at that moment, that Sam had voiced his decision to quit—walk away from hunting, walk away from the Apocalypse…just disappear into the sunset, leaving the rest of the world's hunters to clean up his colossal mess.

Dean had agreed with him immediately, forcing himself for the first time to be more concerned about what was going on around them than what was going on in his brother's head. He'd pushed aside the worry that had erupted within him at the sight of Sam's pain, his regrets and his guilt, and he'd chosen to just let the kid walk away…climbing into a stranger's truck and leaving Dean alone, with no one but his girl to keep him company.

The next time he heard Sam's voice would be the last.

An early morning phone call—4:16am.

The revelation that Sam was Lucifer's true vessel, effectively pitting them against each other for the final event.

_Just when you thought you were out, they pull you back in, huh, Sammy?_

_Turns out that you and me, we're the, uh…fire and the oil of the Armageddon. On that basis alone we should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good._

_We're not stronger when we're together, Sam…I think we're weaker._

_No, we're better off apart. _

For the first few months after they'd gone their separate ways Dean couldn't sleep, work or think without hearing his own words echoing in his head. The dismissal of a little brother. The severing of a connection that had been his one and only lifeline for as long as he could remember.

_Look Dean, I can do this…I __can__. I'm gonna prove it to you._

_Dean, don't do this._

The sadness, the guilt that had been in Sam's voice just seconds before he'd hung up…

Even though it had been going on five years since they'd last spoken, it was those words—that sadness, that guilt—that continued to haunt Dean's thoughts.

He knew deep within himself that the extreme distance from his brother was one of the main reasons he'd turned as cold as he had; without Sammy there to keep him level, to keep him balanced, he was lost…he couldn't remember which direction was up or which direction was human. Right and wrong ceased to exist for him as they once had. He now survived purely on instinct and muscle because that was all he had left.

Gone were the jokes and the sarcasm. Gone were the cheeky smirks and the wry grins. Gone were sacred leather jacket and the even _more_ sacred cherry-black Chevy.

Dean had made his way through life as a charmer, a thief and a sarcastic smart alec, with a grin that covered a multitude of sins and a strong exterior that was damn near impossible to scale. But since the end of the world, however…all that remained was the strong exterior that was now absolutely _impossible _to scale.

It was his instincts that brought him crashing back into real time.

He felt his entire body immediately tense at the quiet sound of footfalls on the worn wooden porch outside the cabin's door. The wood creaked and shifted under the person's weight and within seconds there was a tentative knock. "Dean?"

_Reesa._

He relaxed his shoulders and let out a quiet breath. "Yeah."

His voice was rough and harsh and he hoped it was enough to send her on her way, hoped it was enough to make her leave him alone. He wasn't in the mood for her.

There was a familiar creak of hinges when she pushed open the door and let herself in, hooking her thumbs in the pockets of her jeans as she approached him.

"What are you doin' in here?"

The words were hardly out of her mouth when the loud and jarring sound of a shotgun being loaded broke the stillness.

The weapon felt comfortable in Dean's hands; the weight of it, the chill of the metal traveling through his fingers…

"Dean?"

"It's my room, Reesa. I live here."

"Yeah, I know that." She leaned back against the old wooden table, a small sigh escaping her. "You've been really…distracted the last little while."

"I got a lot to think about." Setting the newly-loaded gun down on the surface of the table, he stood from his chair. "Did Jaeger get the trucks loaded?"

"He's doin' it now."

"Those two duffels I put out?"

"In your Jeep."

He nodded his head once, walking around her and heading towards the only other doorway in the cabin—the doorway to his bedroom.

With nothing more than a beat up single mattress on the floor, a few tattered blankets and a shabby old dresser, he knew that in the grand scheme of things his little room wasn't much. It had been his home for what felt like forever, but it didn't even come close to comparing to the countless skeezy motel rooms he'd stayed in with his brother.

He kept to himself how much he missed scratchy sheets, kitsch pictures and wallpaper and the smell of stale cigarette smoke.

He pulled open the second drawer of the dresser and rummaged through it, grabbing a plain black t-shirt from the very bottom. He was wearing his very last pair of clean but worn jeans and he knew that his green army jacket was hanging loosely on the back of one of the chairs at the table.

His boots thunked across the floor with every step and he could feel Reesa's eyes on him—he tried his best to ignore it.

"You wish you were there, don't you?"

"Where?"

"Detroit." She softened her eyes knowingly. "Isn't your brother there?"

Dean's jaw clenched at the casual mention of Sam. He'd grabbed a small canteen of holy water and in his slow-burning anger it made a slight bang as he roughly set it down on the table. "I wouldn't know."

Tense silence.

He could tell she'd recognized the not-so-subtle _leave it the hell alone_ hidden in his clipped response.

She let out a breath and pushed herself from her lean against the table. In his peripheral, he watched as she cautiously walked towards him; when she spoke, her voice was gentle and he resisted the urge to snarl at her for her misplaced sympathy.

"I heard that demon the other night as clearly as you did." A small hand came down to rest on his forearm and his skin burned under her fingers in frustration and helplessness.

He was so tired of feeling helpless when it came to Sam that he could be sick.

"It said there was gonna be a throw-down in Detroit _today _and that your brother was going to be there—"

"We're not talkin' about this."

"You've _never_ talked about your brother. I mean, what happened between you two—"

"It's no one's business." He roughly pulled his arm out of her grasp and completely ignored the barely-there flinch she threw at the movement. "I don't talk about him, you know that."

Reesa's eyes narrowed. "I don't care how you deal with it, Dean, but you _have_ to eventually."

_I don't care how you deal with this, but you have to deal with it man!_

_Look, I'm your brother. I just wanna make sure you're ok._

The words dredged up from forever resonated loudly in his mind and his breath caught in his chest, just as it always did when he realized that he still remembered _exactly_ how Sam's voice sounded.

Walking down a dusty side road in Medford, Wisconsin—hunting killer clowns, carrying two heavy duffel bags and Sam trudging along faithfully beside him.

He swallowed hard, shaking his head. "I'm _not_ talking about this." He raised his eyes to hers and he could feel the flash of warning in his own hazels. "Just…leave it alone."

_Damn Chuck and his big freakin' mouth._

After a few more seconds of eye-contact to make sure that the conversation was really and truly over, Dean directed his eyes back down to his task—he rolled up the black t-shirt just as he'd been doing his whole life and shoved it into the duffel bag.

The strained silence in the cabin was broken by the sudden sound of more hurried steps hurrying across the old wooden porch.

Dean snapped his head up as the door was thrown open, an exhausted looking Robby—a twenty-year old brunette with painfully familiar floppy hair—sticking his head in.

"Dean, you got a call comin' in on the satellite phone."

"Who is it?"

"Bobby."

Dean was moving before his brain even registered. He rushed past Reesa and fell into step behind Robby, practically flying down the wooden steps and across the pressed down gravel.

It was nearly midnight and most of the lights in the cabins and tents were out—there was a fire in an enormous metal drum and a few people were standing around it, warming their hands. They called out quiet greetings and waved as the two men tore past. Only Robby returned the friendly gestures. Dean didn't care.

There was a cabin down the path with brightly lit windows and they ran up onto the porch, Robby grunting slightly as he pushed the heavy door open.

It was arranged much like Dean's cabin was—a doorway off to the right that normally would serve as a bedroom, and a rickety old wooden table in the center of the main room with four chairs placed around it that at that moment were all full. Playing cards were strewn haphazardly across the surface of the table and four pairs of eyes shot upward, the faces immediately sobering at the sight of him.

Riley, a tall blonde, was sitting in the far chair and holding the yellow satellite phone against his ear. "Yeah, he's here, Bobby…hold on a sec—" He held the phone out and Dean moved forward, snatching it from his outstretched hand without the slightest hesitation.

"Bobby?"

"_Dean."_

There was a strong wave of relief that coursed through him at the familiarly gruff voice. There was a small amount of static coming in over the line, reminding him of the ten hour drive that separated them—Bobby in South Dakota, just outside of Aberdeen…and Dean down in Missouri.

He forced himself to focus.

"You heard anything?"

There was a slight pause and Bobby let out a shaky breath. _"Yeah, I heard somethin'."_

A feeling of cold replaced the relief in Dean's stomach and he swallowed, turning to make eye contact with Riley. The other man seemed to understand the silent order because he jumped from his chair and immediately started herding the other men out the door.

Four pairs of eyes passed over him as they cleared out, some nodding at him and some merely watching their feet as they crossed the floor.

It took only a few seconds but as soon as the door was pushed closed behind them, leaving Dean on his own, he barked out, "Tell me."

"_Dean."_

"I wanna know."

There was another pause.

And just as Dean was about to lose it at Bobby's evasiveness, he said, "_The intel you got from that demon was good. Big face-off, Detroit's East side—Michigan and Woodward."_

"And?"

"_A couple dozen demons. Best I can see, they were all in with Lucifer—"_

"Was he there?"

"_Lucifer or Sam?"_

Dean squeezed the phone so tightly in his fingers, the damn thing creaked.

Trust Bobby to waste no time in calling him out on _that_.

Of all the things Dean had done since the beginning of the war—his ever rising body count, the looting, the stealing, the constantly growing cynicism and suspicion—it was only the disintegration of his relationship with Sam that the old man openly argued with him about.

_He's your brother._

_He's your blood._

_You're all he's got and he's all you got._

He'd heard the works spoken to him, shouted at him, a thousand times, and as much as he wanted them to make a difference he knew that they didn't. As much as he'd feigned invincibility for Sam's benefit over the years, the truth was that Dean was as far from invincible as he could get.

He was tired and he was bitter.

He was broken.

"Bobby."

There was weakness in Dean's voice, a desperation that he felt all the way down to his toes. It was the desperation of a long-dormant older brother.

In his mind's eye he could picture Bobby in the darkened library, leaning back heavily in his rusty old wheelchair. It'd been months since he'd last been to South Dakota, Bobby's house, but that house was one thing that didn't seem to be affected by the passage of time.

He knew that it was most likely nothing had changed since the last time he'd been there on his own. Probably not even since the last time he'd been there with Sam.

"_Rufus tells me they were both there."_

It took a moment for the words to register in Dean's memory-laden mind, but when they did, he could think of only one thing.

_Sammy_.

"Did he make it out?"

Another shaky breath. _"Rufus…didn't really say—"_

"What d'you mean, he didn't really say?"

"_He told me he saw Sam right before everything kicked off but they got separated."_

"Separated? For how long?"

"_I don't know."_

"Dammit." Dean nearly growled, raising a hand and massaging his temples with his thumb and forefinger.

He was mad at Sam. So much so that he would happily beat the kid senseless, but underneath it all Sam was still his kid brother. His intuitions as an older sibling may've been dormant but they certainly weren't dead.

Maybe it was because he'd been a hunter his entire life, from the moment his dad had first handed him a loaded Beretta. Maybe it was because following his instincts had saved his life, and more importantly Sam's, time and time again.

_Or_ maybe it was because that in a scary new world where everything was insane, his instincts were all he could trust.

Whatever the reason, his instincts were telling him that he was being lied to.

"Don't you lie to me."

His voice shook ever so slightly, so he swallowed thickly and said the words again. Stronger.

"Bobby? Don't you lie to me."

Bobby didn't say anything. Not a word.

The dead air over the line was the loudest silence in Dean's memory and he swallowed again, feeling a wave of anxiousness start rising dangerously up his throat from his stomach.

_Something had happened._

_Something was wrong._

_A dimpled smile that sent warmth burning through his chest._

_The familiar presence beside him as he drove, the tires speeding across the blacktop._

_The comforting feeling of the little and warm body curling up beside him after a nightmare._

"Dammit, Bobby, just tell me!"

"_Sam said 'yes'."_

"He said _yes_? What the hell does that mean? He said _yes_ to what?"

There was a sharp silence over the line and it hit him with the force of a sledgehammer.

_You need my consent. _

_Michael needs my say so to ride around in my skin._

Lucifer_ needs a meat suit?_

_He _is_ an angel—them's the rules._

Blurriness took over nearly half of Dean's vision and he swayed dangerously, grabbing the back of the closest chair and curling his fingers around it, using it to steady himself. "W-what?"

"_Sam said 'yes' to Lucifer."_

"How…how d-do you know that?"

"_Rufus uh…"_ Bobby sighed unsteadily—there were unshed tears in his voice. _"Rufus said that the demons just kinda backed off…he and a couple other guys tracked 'em back to Elmwood Cemetery, off Lafayette. Rufus saw the whole thing."_

Dean's eyes closed against their will, burning so badly that he could barely keep his thoughts together. Forcing the words out felt like sandpaper chafing against the back of his throat.

"He wouldn't do that."

"_It's been goin' on five years, Dean—how the hell do you know what he'd do or wouldn't do?"_

"'Cause he's my brother, Bobby." He slowly forced his eyes open. "_Sam_ wouldn't do that."

"_He _did_ do it."_

Bile was creeping its way dangerously up the back of Dean's throat and he tried to push it back, ignoring the violent sickness that overcame him.

_I _know_ that Sam wouldn't do that—not _my_ Sam, not my brother._

He could hear Bobby talking—asking if he was alright, asking what he wanted to do, how he wanted to handle things as they were—but he couldn't answer.

He couldn't answer because he didn't know.

_It's in him and it's not comin' out…so we have to kill him._

His own voice echoed in his mind.

Words he hadn't said yet, taunting him, foreshadowing a future he hadn't prepared for…a future he hadn't even thought was possible.

_We got a better chance of dodging…Lucifer and Michael and this whole damn thing…if we just go our separate ways._

Words he _had _said weren't any better.

Dean had tried to justify it. He'd tried to rationalize the decision he'd made five years before at 4:16am in a rundown motel room in Kansas City—he'd had Sam on the phone, asking to be let back into the hunt, asking to be trusted, asking to be given a chance. He'd been stoic in the face of his little brother's requests and after a few minutes of back-and-forth, he'd snapped his phone closed and started trying to convince himself that what he was doing was right.

That it was in _Sam's_ best interest.

And secondly, that it was in the world's best interest.

He'd ignored the voice screaming at him and warning him against the separation. The rule with the Winchesters was that there was strength in numbers—when one fell, so did the other one…when one failed, so did the other one…when one suffered, they _both_ suffered.

The satellite phone was away from his ear and the call was ended without a single word or a thought.

All that he was thinking about, all that he was _able _to think about at that moment was the man he'd let walk away in River Pass, Colorado…and the little boy that had once upon a time climbed into his lap and fit _just perfectly_ against his chest.

The little boy had been gone for a long time. And now it appeared that the grown man was gone, too.

Sam wasn't _Sam_ anymore; he was a container…a costume for the _devil_.

His entire life had revolved around protecting his little brother, and after thirty-one years he'd finally done it—he'd found a way to fail.

_END_

* * *

**J is for Just**

* * *

"What, are we lost in suburbia hell? Where are we?"

Sam reached for the set of maps in the back seat and quickly found the one he wanted, pulling it into his lap and tracing his finger rapidly over the network of roads. It took him only one minute, and then, "Looks like we're just crossing into Slusher, Kentucky."

"Wait, we're _where_?"

"Just crossing in—"

"Did you just say _Slusher_?"

Sam blinked, studying the map again. "Yeah."

"There's actually a _town_ called _Slusher_?"

A single dimple appeared in the younger man's cheek as he switched off his flashlight. "Looks that way."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why in the hell would someone name a town _Slusher_?"

"Productive imagination?"

Dean snorted, settling lazily into his seat. "Try _jacked_ imagination." He glanced over at his brother quickly. "Did you know that there's a town in Texas called _Oatmeal_?"

Sam's smile morphed into a grin. "No there isn't, you're makin' that up."

"Seriously, dude, could I makeup somethin' like that?"

"You really want me to answer that?"

Dean scowled but there was no heat in it, only a hint of hidden amusement.

"Bitch."

There was no hesitation as Sam threw back, "Jerk."

"I've been to Humptulips in Washington."

San laughed, his dimples showing themselves completely that time. The sight made Dean smile, too. "Come on, man."

"I'm serious! I know, 'cause I remember thinkin'—_ok, so this town's pastimes have to be sex and gardening_." Sam laughed again. "Who knows, people gettin' creative…maybe both at the same time?"

"Yeah, your kinda town."

"Do I _look_ like a gardener to you, Sammy?"

"Jacked imagination, remember?" There was a pause, and then, "Ham and Sandwich."

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "What?"

"Ham and Sandwich."

"Ok, _Yoda_, there's a rest stop comin' up-"

"Dude, Ham and Sandwich is a village in the UK."

There was a small silence where Sam could practically hear the wheels turning in his older brother's mind. The reaction to the ridiculous name was delayed but in no way disappointing. "_Ham and Sandwich_? Ok, now who's makin' crap up?"

"I'm not makin' that up, Dean, one of my professors at Stanford was there on sabbatical—"

"Don't even know what that means."

"Vacation."

"Oh."

"She was tellin' us all these crazy names in England—New Gloucenshire…Great Snoring…Leatherhead-"

Dean chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head. "Leatherhead, huh?"

"I'm not even kidding."

"And here _I_ was thinkin' _Oatmeal, Texas_ was bad."

Sam smiled. "North Piddle was another one."

"_North Piddle_?"

"Yup."

There was a short pause, and then, "Hey Sammy? What did _piddle_ mean to you when you were a kid?"

Sam instantly felt heat in his cheeks. "Shut up."

"No, seriously, what was it?"

"Shut up, Dean."

"_Dean, I gotta go piddle-"_

"Shut up!"

Dean laughed, glancing at the truly horrified look on his little brother's face. "Oh come on, Sammy…lighten up."

"Uh huh."

The engine of the Impala roared as Dean hit the accelerator, the car practically eating up the blacktop under her tires. A relentless breeze filled the car when Sam cracked open his window, the sudden and cold air making his eyes water for a moment.

Sam could hear the sound of Dean shifting in his seat and he cleared his throat again, still trying to ignore the blush he just _knew_ was still on his face. "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah."

"How do you remember stuff like that?"

An eyebrow rose." Stuff like _what_?"

"Me…sayin' that when I was a kid."

Dean looked over for a few seconds and then re-directed his attention to the road in front of him. He gave a single shrug of one shoulder—a classic Dean Winchester sign of trying to appear nonchalant despite the potential danger for sappiness in any given situation.

"I always remember that stuff."

There was a burst of warmth in the younger man's chest. He put in, "You do?"

"Yeah. I remember everything."

Sam took a deep breath. _His chick-flick alarm is gonna go off any second._ "What other stuff do you remember?"

"What, from when you were little?"

"Yeah."

Dean let out a breath and adjusted his hold on the steering wheel. Sam could tell—his older brother was slightly uncomfortable with questions like that; it opened up the doors for more painful thoughts and memories.

But because Sam had asked, Dean would surrender.

It was one of the rules in their little universe. When Sammy asks? He gets.

"Remember when we were holed up in Medina? Couple hours outside of Columbus, Ohio? Right around Halloween."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, dad was away. Hunting a witch or something, wasn't he?"

"Good memory." Dean glanced over with warm eyes before looking back to the road again. "You, uh…wanted to go trick or treating, but I didn't have money to get you a costume in time."

That had been a usual occurrence when they'd been left alone—a small budget with enough money to keep them in groceries until their dad made it back, that was it. No luxuries, no treats, no unexpected fun. Just survival.

Dean continued in an unusually soft voice. "You _really_ wanted to go, first time and everything." He smiled. "You said that we could _make _your costume as long as we did it together."

"I remember that."

"I got my hands on a roll of tinfoil; wrapped you all up in it, you went as a leftover."

Both men laughed at the ridiculous memory—Dean's face thoughtful, Sam's face taken over by another brush of color.

Another thing that Sam remembered was trying to explain the truly enormous pillowcase of candy to their dad once he made it back a day or so later. They'd been left strict instructions not to leave the room on their own—_especially_ around Halloween—and Dean had seen the brunt of the punishment. Still too young for any major hikes or mile runs, he'd been made to run to the end of the main road in town a half a dozen times…and because Sam felt so guilty about asking his brother to take him out trick or treating in the first place, he got out of bed early that morning as well, lacing up his hand-me-down sneakers and trying his best to keep up with Dean as he ran.

"We made that candy last a long ass time, dude. I was afraid dad was gonna make us toss it."

Sam nodded, unable to keep the fond little smile from crossing his face at the childhood memories; a time when things seemed a thousand times easier and innocence was still within reach.

"Yeah, I know."

"Had to damn near hide it from _you_. Little Sammy, sneaking candies and chocolate bars when I wasn't looking. Then all I'd hear later is you goin', '_Dean, I got a tummy ache!'"_

"Like you weren't sneaking candy, too."

"Maybe I was, but it wasn't makin' _me_ sick."

Sam shook his head good-naturedly. "Whatever, dude."

"Man, that costume was great. Too bad dad never got to see it."

"Nah, he was too pissed off about the candy."

"You were like a…geeky little home-made astronaut." Dean chuckled, adjusting himself in his seat again; the leather made a funny noise against the vinyl but all obvious jokes about farting and passing gas had gotten stale when they were kids.

Didn't mean Sam wasn't still fighting against a smile, though.

"I can hear you snickerin' over there, Sam, it's not funny."

"Hey, I didn't say a word-"

"Yeah, you don't have to."

They passed underneath a streetlamp on the highway and the light effectively lit up the entire interior of the car. As startling as it was it was gone just as quickly, the Impala effortlessly gliding back into darkness.

Sam let out a long and heavy breath, realizing for the first time just how tired he was.

_Dazed and Confused_ was playing lightly over the growl of the engine and Sam found himself humming along. Good ol' reliable mullet rock…the soundtrack to their lives.

"How long have we been on the road for?"

Dean's gravely voice responded, "Couple hours."

"A couple as in _ten_?" Sam forced his eyes open after a slow blink. "We should find a motel, dude, get some rest."

"You can sleep if you want, I'm good."

As Dean said those words he casually reached down to the stereo and lowered the volume, reducing the music to merely background noise.

Sam called him on it.

"Dean, you play Zeppelin at two levels—loud and skull rattling. If you're turning it down, you're busted, you need sleep."

"I was turnin' it down for _you_."

"Next motel we're stopping."

"Sam-"

"Don't care, we're stopping."

Dean sighed. "God, you're a pain in the ass."

Sam shrugged indifferently. "Maybe, but I'm a _logical_ pain in the ass."

"Logical or not, it's still a pain."

They fell into a comfortable silence, Sam nearly grinning again when he saw Dean reach back down to the stereo and crank the volume back up.

_That_ was more like it.

Skull rattling.

The younger brother knew that in reality the car wasn't going to be stopping any time soon, the determined set to Dean's jaw was enough proof of that. So he tried his best to get comfortable, leaning his head back and letting out a relaxing breath.

"You want me to turn the music down again?"

Sam popped open one eye and looked over at his brother, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. "Nah, it's ok, man. I'm not gonna fall asleep."

Dean either didn't hear him or wasn't paying attention.

The volume of the music went right down again and when Sam opened his eyes to shoot a scowl, he was instead faced with Dean's leather jacket.

The older man had somehow maneuvered himself out of it and was now holding it out in offering, one hand still firmly on the steering wheel.

"You don't want your jacket?"

Dean shrugged, eyes never leaving the road. "It's ok, dude. I'm warm. Take it and get some sleep."

And so Sam reached out and took it, muttering a quiet and embarrassed "thanks" as he draped it over himself, burrowing down into the warmth. The jacket smelled of his brother—gun powder and worn leather. It was a comforting smell and he felt himself getting drowsy against his will.

An absolutely enormous yawn escaped him and he tried to speak through it. "We s-should stop, D-Dean."

"Go to sleep."

"How can you not be tired?"

Dean shrugged again. "Sleep's overrated."

Sam managed to scowl _that_ time, nestling even further under the leather jacket. "Yeah, whatever. Maybe you're just weird."

"Same gene pool, remember?"

"Oh yeah-" Sam sighed, letting his eyes slip closed. "Yeah, I know."

"Makes you proud, doesn't it?"

"Makes me wish you'd stop somewhere and get some damn sleep."

"I got another few hours in me, Sammy." He admitted, voice quiet. "I'll wake you when we cross into Arkansas."

"Tennessee. Stop in Nashville." Sam yawned again. "I'll take over."

"That's only an hour and a half. You sure?"

"Yeah, you've been doing all the driving. I'm good to do some."

"But I'm _always_ doin' the driving—"

"Yeah, ok, whatever." Sam opened his eyes and sent his brother a serious look. "_Wake me_ in Nashville, Dean."

"Yeah, I will—"

"I mean it!"

"And I hear you. Not go to sleep, you're annoying as hell."

"Yeah, well, like _you_ said? Same gene pool."

Dean couldn't help but laugh, glancing over at the Sammy shaped lump in the passenger seat. He redirected his eyes to the darkened road just beyond the Impala's headlights but the larger fraction of his attention was on his brother.

He knew the second Sam fell asleep and a familiar feeling came over him.

It was something he was used to; sitting behind the wheel of the car surrounded by sounds that reassured him that everything was normal—the sound of the car's flawless engine…the hushed sound of his music drifting through the speakers…and his little brother's soft breathing, the frown lines finally smoothing from his face in sleep.

Dean _was_ exhausted and the idea of a warm bed sounded good. But there was a feeling deep down in the pit of his stomach that he couldn't shake. He didn't know what it was or what was causing it, but he couldn't deny that it was there—the protective big brother and the fierce hunter in him wouldn't _let_ him deny it. Something was telling him to keep going, keep moving, not to stop.

And so he'd keep on driving, trying to reassure himself that there was no need for the rock in his stomach. Things were fine and as ordinary as they were capable of getting.

He'd already decided that he'd let Sam sleep once they passed through Nashville. The bags under the kid's eyes declared a need for at _least_ a few good hours of uninterrupted rest and Dean was going to make sure he got it.

Sam would be pissed once he woke up. He'd flip out and demand that Dean hand over the keys.

But oh well.

The kid who'd gone out as a leftover one Halloween was notorious for getting cranky when he didn't sleep. And as much as Sam tried to deny it, that hadn't changed over the years.

At twenty-two, he was _still_ notorious for the same damn thing.

_END_


	7. K

**K is for Kaleidoscope**

Kaleidoscope: a complex set of events or circumstances.

* * *

For a single moment it almost amazed him how much he stood out.

The humidity, the palm trees, the tanned skin of almost every single person who passed him by.

It was a completely different world and as he leaned casually against the side of his much-loved Chevy, Dean didn't even try to make himself fit the mold. He wasn't a person who cared whether or not he blended in and with all the blonde haired surfer boys, he couldn't even if he wanted to—leather jackets and hard rock didn't exactly gel with the Beach Boys and board wax.

Well, ok, the Beach Boys weren't _that_ bad.

He wasn't even supposed to be there. Not really. But Palo Alto was a usual stop for him that time of year—the end of final exams, the first few days of summer…the tidal wave of newly liberated college kids heading out into the California sunshine with their beach bags, stress-free smiles and shoe lace bikinis.

The beach was relatively crowded, his watch announcing that it was just after noon. He'd parked the Impala in the tiny parking lot which was only a few steps to the sand and then a good distance down to the water's edge.

It was there, standing with a group of his friends that Dean had first spotted him. Black swimming trunks and a white t-shirt, _Stanford_ blazoned across his chest in red lettering. His hair was slightly longer than Dean remembered, flopping and blowing freely in the cool breeze. And there was _no_ memory whatsoever of the green surfboard the kid held nervously in his hands.

_Sammy surfs?_

_No freakin' way, it's impossible._

But then, a lot could happen in two years. Anything was possible.

It wasn't something the older man liked to think about but it was always there, sitting in the very recesses of his mind; the sneaking around, the fight, the ultimatum and the quickly packed bag. The twenty minute car ride to the bus station that Dean would always be remember as the longest twenty minutes of his life.

Not to mention the most painful.

And God, it'd hurt.

Dean Winchester, by way of the world, was used to pain. He faced it head on, took it and shouldered it…maybe not with ease, but with astonishing experience.

But how he'd felt watching his little brother get on that bus? How he'd felt when the one year anniversary of Sam leaving had come and gone? And how he'd felt, drowning himself in beer and whiskey, alone, on Sam's nineteenth birthday?

That was a brand of pain he wasn't used to.

He'd always faced pain _with_ Sam, never _because_ of him.

The smile that was on Sam's face at that moment, however, was somewhat painful, too. He was happy and content with those people, those _strangers_, seeming to fit in without any problem.

Dean found himself wondering if any of those kids had ever even heard his name—Dean Winchester. If they even knew who he was. Hell, if they even knew that Sam _had_ a brother that thought about him probably close to a thousand times a day.

Probably not.

Sam had said that he was leaving the hunt behind and that probably meant he was leaving Dean behind, too. After all, their father had made it clear—college or family—and Sam had accepted the challenge, severing nearly all contact.

It had been one of the only times in the twenty-four year old's life where he could've easily knocked his father on his ass with a perfectly aimed punch and not felt _one ounce _of guilt over it.

There'd been a build-up of fury in his right arm for months, just waiting for the right face to come along as an outlet. But every face that had come along hadn't gotten rid of the rock in Dean's stomach; bar fights, hustles gone bad, drunken bikers in that parking lot back in Dallas. Nothing had made the difference. He was still furious.

But furious at _who_? _That_ was the real question.

He knew without a doubt that he was mad at himself. He'd watched the proverbial shit speed towards the metaphorical fan and had done nothing to thwart it or change the course of things. He'd let Sam pack that damn bag. He'd driven the kid to the bus station himself and hadn't said _one_ _single_ _word_ to try and talk him into staying.

And the worst of his crimes? He hadn't backed his little brother up.

Dean hadn't wanted him to leave. He hadn't agreed with Sam about being out at school, on his own, surrounded by people he didn't know and invisible threats—dark corners, alleyways—perfect hiding places for bad crap that the geek had been a magnet for since he was a kid.

But when John Winchester had said, "_If you're gonna go, stay gone."_?

Letting that moment go by without saying anything was the biggest mistake of Dean's life. And dammit, he knew it.

And he hated himself for it.

Sam was gifted in school, always had been. Teachers absolutely _fawned_ over this hopelessly adorable shaggy-haired kid with cute dimples who was always polite and courteous in class.

The little dude's grades had been practically perfect all through elementary and high school and his ambition was unstoppable. Sam had dreams and he had goals; things that he wanted in life, places he wanted to go and experiences he wanted to have. But he'd been held back—by a father who demanded military perfection and obedience, and an older brother who was so entrenched in hunting and training that he'd overlooked what was most important.

So he was mad at his dad, too…for not appreciating academic smarts and flawless report cards. Because while hunting and training _were_ important, they were only important to _one_ of his sons. John Winchester should've taken that fact and ran with it. But instead he'd chosen to tighten the vice, causing little Sammy to slip through their fingers.

"Dean?"

The sudden sound of the familiar voice was like being doused with a bucket of ice water.

Dean's head snapped up, his eyes widening at the approaching figure of his little brother.

_Well, awesome surveillance, Winchester. Real smooth._

He tried his damnedest to smile. "Hey Sammy."

_He'd better not say 'It's Sam', I won't be able to freakin' stand it._

"What…are you doing here?"

Dean shrugged a shoulder, leaning more of his weight against the car. The hot metal against the small of his back was anchoring him, keeping him from having a complete nervous breakdown. "Just uh…thought I'd come up and check on you."

"Check on me?"

"End of exams, right?"

Coming to a slow stop right close to the car, Sam crossed his arms loosely. It was an action Dean recognized—Sammy was crossing his arms so he wouldn't fidget. "Yeah, Tuesday was my last one."

"I know."

"You do?"

"Yeah, well, y'know, I…" Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably. Did he know Sam's class schedule off by heart? Damn right he did. Did he want Sam to know that? Hell no. "I just figured, y'know, summertime and everything."

_I am so lame._

Sam just nodded.

Feeling a little bit better Dean looked directly at his little brother's face, squinting in the sunlight. "So how you been? You good?"

Sam's eyes had been trained on the sandy asphalt and he quickly raised his head, nodding again. His stupid hair flopped into his eyes and Dean resisted the urge to raise a hand and move it the hell outta the way. "Yeah, I guess."

"You learned how to surf, huh?"

Dean nodded towards the group of college kids that Sam had been with. There was a blonde girl standing there, Sam's green surfboard held loosely in her hands. Following Dean's eyes, Sam snorted lightly before looking back to his brother. "I don't really _surf_. Mostly I just…fall ass-backwards off the board and swim back to shore."

Dean found himself chuckling. "Oh, ok. That's…_awesome_."

"Yeah."

"You're, uh…not turnin' into a surfer boy on me, are you, Sammy?"

"Would you care if I was?"

Ok, so it was gonna be one of _those_ conversations.

_Dammit._

"Yeah-" Dean's words stalled and he cleared his throat again, nodding quickly. "Yeah, I'd care. Can't have you changin' too much-"

"I _want_ to change, Dean."

_Ouch._

He nodded again, ignoring the sudden pain in his chest. "Yeah, I know you do. How could I forget?"

With each brother putting some form of a scathing comment on the table, an awkward silence fell between them.

Silences between them never used to be awkward. They'd always been comfortable and friendly; two kids, two teenagers, two men, keeping each other company and being there for one another, whether it was conversation that was needed or something else altogether.

But as much as it hurt those times were gone. A darkened abyss had taken the place of the camaraderie of two brothers who'd practically been stuck at the hip since the death of their mother.

It was astonishing how something as simple as ambition, not to mention stubbornness, could rip all that apart.

Dean had seen Stanford coming a mile away and when Sam first announced his desire for a higher education—the kind that his father and brother weren't capable of giving—Dean hadn't been surprised. Scared? For sure. Angry? Yeah, a little bit. Heartbroken? Definitely.

When he'd hit eighteen, Sammy had grown too "big" to stay under Dean's safety blanket. After all, the older man couldn't _force_ brotherly closeness on his younger sibling, no matter how much he might've wanted to.

Sam audibly swallowed hard, but when he spoke his voice was rigid. "Does dad know you're here?"

"What do you think?"

"I think that…some things _never_ change."

"Y'know, you're pretty self-righteous." Dean's eyes narrowed against his will and he fought against the sudden instinct to protect a man that wasn't there. It was a trait in the older brother that had always been a bone of contention; his blind faith, his never-failing obedience. He tried to push the feeling away. "You're not exactly innocent in all this crap, Sam, so don't try to come off as the victim, ok?"

Sam chuckled bitterly and Dean felt his blood boil. "I thought you said you could never forget what happened?"

"Sam-"

"Dad said to stay gone, Dean. He did that _all by himself._ That was him."

"I know that-"

"But I'm not the victim?"

Dean shook his head. "Sam, you've got real issues with this-"

"Yeah, maybe I do…and you wanna know where they all come from?"

Dean's hand shot out and gripped Sam's arm angrily before he was even aware he'd moved. "You say 'Dad', and I swear, I'll knock you on your ass right here."

"Sam?" A voice rang out, a delicately _female_ voice, and the two angry brothers continued staring at each other as the question was called out concernedly. "Is everything ok?"

Sam hardly blinked and Dean didn't have to look to know it was the cute blonde girl that was watching them so closely.

After a few seconds, Sam called back, "Yeah, Jess, everything's fine."

Out of his peripheral, Dean saw the girl nod her head. "Well come on, we're heading into the water!"

"I'll catch up, go ahead."

"You sure?"

Sam nodded, glancing at her quickly over his shoulder and shooting her a reassuring dimpled smile. "Yeah, I'm sure."

God, Dean had missed that smile.

The girl, Jess, observed them for a little while longer and then reluctantly turned her back on them, grasping the surfboard tightly and walking down the beach towards their friends.

Dean _never_ made the first move. It just wasn't something he was programmed to do.

But with Sammy, he _always_ seemed to find it in him to do things he wasn't programmed to do.

That moment was no exception.

"Look-" He started in a low voice, squeezing Sam's arm to get his attention. "I didn't drive all the way out here to fight with you. I came here to check on you, to make sure you were ok."

"Well, I'm fine."

It was only because Dean knew the kid's face that he spotted the slight softening of his expression. But then, he hadn't really _known_ Sam in two years, so as far as Dean knew, the softer expression was a bad thing. "I know you are." He released Sam's arm and flexed his fingers, sending the younger man a quick look of apology. "Sorry, didn't know I was holdin' on so tight."

"It's ok." Sam massaged his arm slightly and then sighed, dropping his arms down to his sides. "Look, Dean…I just…uh-" He shook his head, swallowing again. "I don't really…know…how to-"

In their countless years of being inseparable, Dean had never seen his geekified little brother struggle so hard for words.

It was a true testament to how crappy their situation was that Sam, the sensitive one in the family, couldn't figure out what the hell to say.

"I just…I don't know…with the way things _are_-"

"Sam, man, it's ok." Dean shrugged a shoulder, saving his brother from giving himself a possible aneurysm. "Things are jacked up, I know that."

Sam nodded and released a breath, looking back down to the pavement. "Look, uh…thanks."

"For what?"

"For coming out here." Seeming to find some courage, Sam raised his eyes and looked directly into Dean's face. "I mean, I know that things are-"

"FUBAR?"

Sam blinked for a moment and then chuckled in spite of himself. "Yeah, even though things are FUBAR…well…y'know-"

Translated? _It's good to see you._

Dean swallowed hard and then took a deep breath. "Yeah, well, y'know-"

Translated? _Good to see you, too._

"Sam!"

Another voice called out and this time both brothers looked.

Down the beach where Sam's friends had entered the water was a guy probably around Sam's age with dark brown hair. He was wearing long beach shorts and a skin tight white neoprene shirt. He held his arms out in a classic gesture of _"are you comin', or what?"_.

"Friend of yours?"

Sending the guy a quick wave, Sam turned back to his brother. "Yeah, my roommate."

"What's with that shirt?"

"It's a diving shirt."

"But he's _surfing_."

Sam smiled slightly and nodded. "Yeah, well, he says it's better than wearing no shirt at all."

Dean merely blinked. "Your roommate's a nerd, Sam."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know he is."

Dean pushed himself from his lean against the car and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I should get outta here, I gotta head east."

"Where to?"

Looking down the beach and squinting in the sunlight, Dean shrugged. "I dunno. Probably call dad, see what he's up to. Maybe find a job on the way."

Glancing down at his friends briefly, Sam said, "Look, why don't you hang out for a bit?" Dean slowly moved his eyes back to Sam's face and felt his breath hitch. Sam, not noticing the reaction, kept on talking. "I mean, I'm outta class, I have some free time. I can…maybe…show you around, introduce you to some people."

"Your friends?"

"Yeah." One of Sam's dimples appeared. "Maybe you can try your hand at falling ass-backwards off a surfboard."

Surprising himself, Dean let out a laugh and shook his head. "Nah, fallin' off a waxed board isn't really my style, Sammy."

"No, I know." That damn dimple was still there. "But, I mean, we could figure out some stuff to do. Catch up, y'know?"

Before he could stop himself, Dean said, "Can I ask you a question?"

Sam blinked again. "Uh…yeah…sure."

"Do…your friends know about me?"

The kid answered quickly. Too quickly. "Yeah, of course they do."

But Dean had already seen all he'd needed to.

Sam's friends had absolutely _no_ idea.

He tried to ignore how much it hurt.

A somewhat bitter smile came across Dean's face. "Yeah."

Sam's face fell and he sighed, looking instantly upset. "Dean, man, it's not like that-"

"No, hey, it's fine." He tried to wipe the smile off his face as he met Sam's big eyes again. "I didn't expect much else, man, no worries."

"It's just, y'know, they were askin' questions and I didn't know what to say. Then Rick—my roommate?—he saw my bag of rock salt and…I mean, it's hard explaining a ten pound bag of that stuff. And don't even get me _started_ on the wards and protective charms and symbols, dude. I swear, he must've thought I was nuts…started askin' me why I was carving things in the walls-"

"Sam?" The kid trailed off lamely and Dean shook his head. "Stop ramblin', ok?"

"But-"

"Thanks for uh…the offer to stay, but I should really be goin'." Dean tried not to notice the truly miserable look on Sam's face. "I gotta call dad and get back to work."

After a moment, Sam nodded. "Yeah. Yeah…ok."

"SAM!"

That Rick guy, in the ridiculous diving/surfing shirt, was back on the beach and flamboyantly waving his arms like an _absolute_ asshat.

Sam seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

"Dammit, Rick, I'll be right there!"

"Look, get goin'." Dean spoke over the loudness and nodded towards Sam's friends—and his roommate, who was looking quite offended. "They're waitin' on you."

Looking back to his older brother, Sam's eyes were impossibly big.

If Dean didn't know better he'd say that Sam was on the verge of losing it.

"Dean, stay." The words were quick and almost desperate, Sam running a hand through his hair. "Just…for a couple days?"

Dean's shoulders fell and he let out a breath, his hands clenching inside the pockets of his jeans. "Sammy-" He shook his head, leaning back against the car. He was suddenly very tired. "I don't belong here." He finally admitted in a quiet voice. "This place? I can't stay."

The words came and Dean knew that they were the truth, that they needed to be said. Sam had worked hard to build a life—he had friends, people that he'd obviously trusted with very little of himself, but they were still his friends just the same. And Dean knew that if he stayed, those friends would ask questions and Sam would resent him for it. Even if the kid didn't want to.

Sam nodded, seeming to accept his brother's words for what they were.

Dean was, in essence, a loner. Friends were few and far between, family was cherished. _Especially_ the long-limbed boy standing in front of him.

But at twenty-years-old, Sammy wasn't a boy anymore. He'd grown up. He was finally a man.

_Jesus, where's the time go?_

"I'll give you a call in a couple days, man, ok?"

"Promise?"

Dean couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, you know I do."

"At least once a week?"

"We'll pick a day and stick to it."

Another silence fell over them, but this time, the awkwardness from before was missing. Of course it was strained because they were on the verge of another goodbye—but it was different than the last time they'd gone their separate ways.

This time, it was on considerably better terms.

This time, it was on _their_ terms.

Before Dean could finish his thought, he was pulled into a rough and unexpected embrace. Two surprisingly strong arms were wrapped around him, a familiar weight—although much bigger—was resting against his chest, the mess of familiar chocolate brown hair was tickling his stubble-covered cheek.

It was a '_Sammy hug'_.

And Dean knew from experience that there was absolutely nothing better.

"Take care, Dean. Ok?"

Dean nodded against Sam's shoulder and swallowed hard. "Yeah, Sammy. You too." He returned the embrace as well as he could before they mutually separated—Sam blinking incessantly and Dean clearing his throat. "Seriously, don't go turnin' into a surfer boy."

"I won't."

"Ok, good." Pushing himself from the heated metal of the Impala, Dean slapped Sam's shoulder reassuringly and walked around the car, pulling open the drivers door.

The creak of the hinges instantly made him feel better.

"I'll call in a couple days, alright?"

The younger man nodded quickly. "Yeah, sounds good."

_Goodbye_ wasn't something Dean could force himself to say. He hadn't said it when Sam first left for California…he hadn't said it the few times they'd spoken over the phone…and he wasn't going to say it then.

So instead, he settled for, "Later, bitch."

The one dimple came back to Sam's face and he sent a small wave. "Yeah. Later." Then tentatively, "Jerk."

Grinning hugely, (and feeling completely miserable) Dean slid into the vinyl seat of the Impala and pulled his door closed, sending a small wave to Sam as he started the engine.

Sam didn't move as he pulled away, maneuvering the large car through the tiny parking lot. Dean could feel his little brother's eyes on the tail end of the car, and when he finally found a break in traffic and punched the accelerator, he fought every instinct in his heart that was screaming at him to turn back.

He hoped that when Sam went back over to his friends, he was smiling again.

He hoped that things between them would change and finally get better.

But most of all, he hoped that when his friends asked who he was…Sam would tell them, _"That was my brother."_

_END_


	8. L

**Author's Note:** Once again, I'm very sorry for how long it's been since I last updated. I hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday! I know that this entry is incredibly short and incredibly random, and I apologize for that. My muse for Supernatural has sort of been non-existent since I posted "K" and this was just to remind myself that I can still write it lol "M" is already in the works and it's pretty long so far--I'm attempting to tackle a hunt again, so we'll see how that goes haha

**Disclaimer:** Me? Owning Sam, Dean and their entire universe? Please! Don't tease me.

**Note:** This has spoilers for the end of season 4 and a little bit for season 5. Those of you that haven't seen season 5, beware! :o)

* * *

**L is for Lingering**

* * *

Lingering: remaining for some time in the thoughts or mind

* * *

Sam Winchester was trying not to shiver.

The cold of the Impala's hood was radiating through the material of his thin jacket but it was comforting in a strange way. The skies overheard were clear and cloud free, allowing him to see the stars for the first time in what felt like forever.

He never simply _looked_ at the stars anymore.

Not since he'd lost Jess, anyway.

God, it felt like it'd been forever—the schoolwork, the textbooks, the pub nights and the friendships. The hours he spent trying to be normal, the time he spent bonding with his newfound companions over beer and wings…a time when exams and term papers had been his biggest concerns.

A time before the visions and the death of his father…

…before the demon blood and deals with devils…

…before Hell, angels and the Apocalypse.

It felt strange to look back on those days but he allowed himself to do it every once in a while. Sometimes he needed to. He couldn't help but feel amazed at how much had changed over those few years, how much had happened…how much had gone wrong. Life was never supposed to end up the way it had, not in his wildest dreams.

It had taken a long time for him to see that his father and brother had always been right—dreams were nothing, they meant absolutely _nothing_ if you couldn't go out and live them…make them a reality. When you were meant for other things the universe worked hard to make sure you stayed on that path; whether it be wealth, reputation, family…or in Sam's case, evil-doing and the end of the world.

As Castiel had once told them, they'd destroyed the world—Dean breaking the first seal, Sam breaking the last.

It was sometimes far too easy to feel sorry for himself.

He tried his damndest to look at things objectively. It didn't matter how much he wished he could go back in time and undo it all, he knew that it was never going to happen. Things didn't work that way, _life_ didn't work that way. Not for Winchesters anyway.

Something swatted at his shoulder and he jumped, whipping his head around and nearly sliding off of the Impala's smooth hood in his panic.

"Whoa, take it easy."

_Oh._

Dean's hand shot up in a '_calm down'_ kind of gesture.

Sam's heart immediately slowed at the comforting and familiar face and he sighed, letting himself relax back against the windshield.

"Kinda jumpy there, Sam."

"Can you blame me? You shouldn't be sneakin' up on people like that."

"Not my fault you're not payin' attention." A six-pack of cold beer appeared at Sam's side, Dean setting it down and resting a hip against the car. "What the hell are you still doin' out here?"

Quietly, "Can't sleep."

"Yeah, me either. Scoot over, dude."

Sam obliged and the older man slid up onto the hood, sighing as he leaned back against the windshield. He wordlessly grabbed two beers, handing one over to Sam who silently nodded his thanks.

"So what's goin' on with you? Hmm?"

At Dean's words, Sam sighed and cracked open his beer.

"You've been a space cadet for four days."

Sam shrugged one shoulder. "I dunno, man. Can't seem to…get my head on straight, y'know?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see his brother nodding—as if he both understood and accepted that explanation.

"A lot of crap's gone down."

"Yeah, no doubt."

Dean sighed, glancing over. "Other than spacey, how you feelin'?"

_Worn out? Frustrated? Trapped by a destiny to completely destroy the world?_ "Ok, I guess."

"You're a liar."

Sam turned to meet his older brother's eyes and he found himself swallowing hard. There was no judgment in the familiar green and gold depths, just curiosity…an astounding change from the older brother he'd seen over those few short weeks.

It hurt Sam to admit to himself that he hadn't yet been able to get used to the more caring and concerned Dean. He was far too accustomed to cold stares, sharp rejoinders and untrusting eyes; a side of his brother that he'd never, not once, seen in his lifetime. It was terrifying and did nothing but leave him feeling empty and alone.

The emptiness that he'd felt while Dean had been in Hell was _nothing_ compared to the emptiness he'd felt over those few weeks with Dean sitting right beside him…indifferent and cold.

_You chose a _demon_ over your own brother, and look what happened._

_I'm havin' a hard time forgivin' and forgettin' here…you know?_

_I don't think that we can ever be what we were._

_I just don't think I can trust you._

_I spend more time worryin' about _you_ than doin' the job right._

As he'd told his brother a thousand times—he could never punish him nearly as much as he was punishing himself.

Sam swallowed hard again and then quickly cleared his throat. "Yeah…well."

"_Yeah, well_? That's the best you got?"

"What more do you want?"

"How 'bout the truth?" Dean pushed himself into a sitting position and narrowed his eyes. "You're not sleepin', you barely eat…and if that peach fuzz on your face goes on any longer, you'll have a beard down to your ankles by next Tuesday."

"Is not shaving against the law?"

Dean didn't miss a beat. "No, but not takin' care of yourself is."

"Would that be state or federal?"

"More like _laws of siblinghood."_

There were a thousand things Sam could say—'_things aren't the same, don't act like they are'…'you said you can't trust me so what difference does it make?_'—each and every one setting the stage for another one of their now famous and ferocious fights. But when he looked up and saw the familiar concern in those familiar eyes, all of his smartass comments were shot down right away.

He'd never admit it out loud but Sam had missed his big brother. He'd missed having him there to talk to and bounce ideas off of…he'd missed the conversation…he'd missed the jokes and the sarcasm…he'd missed being cared about.

He'd missed being loved.

"I'm sick of it all, Dean." He said softly, his eyes glued to the dark and starry sky. He swallowed. "I'm sick of the demons and the angels and all their crap, the Apocalypse…I just want it to be over."

There was a slight pause, and then, "You're startin' to sound like Gabriel."

"Well, it's true." He locked eyes with his brother. "Everything we've gone through, everything we've done…it doesn't mean a damn thing anymore, does it?"

Dean shook his head. "It means somethin' to me, Sam. You too."

"Yeah, but is that enough?"

"It's enough for now."

"Is it, Dean? 'Cause I don't think so."

Dean sighed, raking a hand through his short hair. Sam could read his brother's expression perfectly—_Maybe I should've gotten somethin' stronger than beer._

"Whiskey."

"What?"

"You should've gotten whiskey."

It took a moment but Sam's words eventually clunked into place. All Dean did was smile and shake his head. "Yeah. Whiskey."

Sam knew from experience that booze was his brother's own personal psychological salt and burn. Even though he'd been around it for years, he'd never partaken in it—he didn't think it was worth the hangover. But as he'd gotten older and more exhausted he'd started to understand it's draw.

Sometimes there was no other way to deal with things but to burn it all away.

"I thought you didn't like JD?"

"Don't care." Sam set his beer can carefully down onto the Impala's flawless hood and let out a breath, sitting up and matching his brother's posture. "It's not bad."

"Not bad?" He snorted, "Sammy, the last time did a shot of that stuff, you wore practically pitched a tent in front of the toilet."

There was a heavy silence…and then—

"You haven't called me Sammy in a long time."

As soon as the words were out, Sam wished more than anything that there was a way to get them back _in_.

He was sure that the dreaded chick-flick alarms were blaring in his brother's head, as they usually did when moments like that creeped up on them unexpectedly. Truth was, moments like that—at least for the last little while—had been few and far between. There was always a tension between them, a dark cloud hanging over them that was so toxic and thick it was difficult to breath, difficult to think.

He missed the _good ol' days_. The days where they hunted because it was what they did, what they'd been raised to do…_not_ because the entire planet and every person on it was depending on them. The days when they laughed easily and joked often. The days where he was a _bitch_ and Dean was a _jerk._

The long and awkward silence following his words was broken by Dean's quiet and slightly self-conscious voice. "What are you talkin' about? I call you Sammy all the time."

Sam swallowed. "No, Dean…you don't."

There was a sigh, "Sam—"

"No, it's uh…it's ok." He plastered what he hoped was an easy-going smile on his face and turned to face his brother. "Don't worry about it, dude…forget it."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"Just—" Sam shrugged indifferently and took a long pull from his beer, draining the can in his nervousness. He let out a breath and stood up straight, his boots practically sinking into the damp ground. "I'm gonna go in…try to grab a couple hours—"

"Who's your brother, Sam?"

The softly spoken words were firm and they made Sam stop in his tracks. He felt a strong shiver work it's way up his spine so he burrowed himself further inside his jacket. "What?"

"You heard me." Dean blinked slowly and then turned his head, his tumultuous green eyes locking with Sam's. There was so much emotion in those eyes—exhaustion, anger, confusion, sadness—that it nearly made Sam feel ill.

If anyone's eyes were the window to the soul, Dean's were.

His eyes were always expressive whether he wanted them to be or not.

"_You're_ my brother, Dean."

"You're damn right I am." Dean sighed, his breath appearing in a white cloud. "Things are uh…things are messed up, I know that—" He shrugged, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he pondered. "I don't want you thinkin' that…that I don't…"

It was one of the beautiful things about their relationship. It didn't matter how screwed up or strained things were…Sam could still read his older brother like a book.

With things as they had been between them, Sam couldn't help but be grateful for small miracles.

His throat tightened against his will and he nodded. "Yeah, Dean—" Dean looked over. "I know."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Dean nodded his head, taking a quick drink. "Good."

He didn't know what the future was going to bring for them, or for anyone else. The world had become a very dark and scary place in an astonishingly short amount of time—innocent people were being killed for nothing, families were being torn apart by monsters that were only supposed to exist in nightmares…the worst parts of the Bible were live and in living color for all the world to see.

And the two of them were responsible for it.

_You and your brother destroyed the world._

And they had, completely and utterly.

"You comin' in?"

The older brother drained what was left in his beer can and slid down from the hood of his baby, his hiking boots making contact with the sodden grass. "Thought you said you couldn't sleep?"

Sam let out a breath and shrugged a shoulder. "I can't."

"You want me to clack you in the jaw? Knock you out for a couple hours?"

"You're actually _offering_ to punch me in the face?"

"Sure. If it helps in the long run, I'll make the sacrifice."

He snorted. "Some sacrifice."

"It _is_ a sacrifice—it'd break my heart, Sammy."

"Would it?"

Dean came to a slow stop and raised his head, the easy smile on his face slowly fading away. "What kinda question is that?"

"A genuine one."

"A _genuine_ one?"

Sam realized at that moment that whatever lightness that had sprung up between them, he'd just destroyed nearly effortlessly. He was so furious with himself all he could do was breathe a bitter laugh. "Nevermind, man." He nodded towards the motel. "It's cold, let's go in."

"Sam…"

"Dean, just—" He waved a hand dismissively. "Forget it, ok?"

It was clear from the expression on the elder Winchester's face that _forgetting it_ wasn't going to happen any time soon. Dean never _forgot_ things. He simply filed them away, setting reminders in his mind to address them at a later time, when others least expected it.

But then again, they'd both changed over those last couple years.

Things that needed to be addressed were pushed away and ignored…while things that didn't matter in the grand scheme of things were thrust into the spotlight, effectively deteriorating their relationship even more.

Dean started forward again, his eyes trained on the ground. "It's friggin' cold out here."

"Michigan, dude—"

"No, that's not what I meant."

Sam blinked slightly as Dean came closer and he nearly yelped out loud as a second beer came sailing at him, his fingers barely managing to close around the nearly freezing cold can.

"Warm yourself up, Sammy."

Feeling completely bewildered, Sam watched as his older brother made his way towards the motel, pausing just inside the door of their room to wave him inside.

It took a moment for Sam to get his feet moving again.

It took even longer for him to crack open the can of beer.

Once he entered their motel room, however, it took less than a second for him to crack a smile. Dean had turned on the TV—somehow managing to find the midnight Creature Feature—and had kicked off his boots, settling comfortably into the mound of pillows on his bed.

Things around them may have been screwed up—things between them may have been on the verge of being unfixable—but as long as they had _that_…as long as they had each other…everything else was manageable.

From his position on his bed, Dean raised his own can in a 'cheers'.

Sam returned the gesture and they both drank together.

_END_


	9. M

**Author's Note:** Hey everyone! First of all, I want to apologize for how long this has taken me. I've been crazy busy with work and writer's block completely kicked my butt. Have you ever sat there, wanting _desperately_ to write, but you can't? That's been me for the last month. Secondly, I'm not sure about this entry AT ALL. I wrote it because I needed to write something to get the gears grinding again but to be honest I don't even know if I really like it. It's a continuation of "Bad Day At Black Rock" (just a small tag) that I had half-finished and decided to get done. I hope it starts getting a little easier to get posts up--I'm really hating this Winchester-esque blockage I got goin' on *cringes and pouts at the same time*. Hope you're all doing well and thanks so much for the patience!

* * *

**M is for Money**

**

* * *

**Sam was trying desperately not to laugh.

But no matter how hard he tried, a smile still somehow found its way onto his face.

The cemetery was dark and damp and despite the rhythmic agony pounding in his shoulder the events of the day struck him as bizarrely funny. Of all the things he'd faced in his lifetime—all the monsters, spirits, ghosts and devils—he'd ended up being put through the ringer because of a _rabbit's_ _foot_.

A rabbit's foot, and a twenty-something British girl that Dean had quickly rechristened "limey bitch" out of massive disappointment and anger over his stolen lottery tickets.

_Forty-six grand, Sam! God dammit!_

Truth be told, Sam was disappointed too. After all, the money from the tickets would've helped them out a lot. In their lives that kind of money was impossible to come by.

Oh well.

At least they'd enjoyed the thought of it for a little while.

Dean was breathing like a bull as the sound of Bela's car faded into the darkness. After a few silent minutes Dean turned to look at his brother and started slightly, as if just remembering he was there.

Sam distinctly saw Dean's eyes travel down to the gaping and bloody hole in the left shoulder of his jacket and when he spoke his voice was full of concern and forced calm. "How you doin'?"

Sam swallowed hard, tightening his grip on his injured shoulder. "Surviving."

Dean shook his head. "I'm gonna kill her."

"Dean-"

"So help me God, Sam, one of these days-"

"Can we just get outta here?"

Dean growled as he adjusted the strap of the duffle bag on his shoulder. "Steals our money, shoots you…I've never hit a woman in my life, but that bitch is pushin' it, dammit!" With one more concerned glance at Sam, as if judging his condition, Dean turned and set off across the cemetery, glancing over his shoulder. "You gonna make it down to the car, dude?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Sure you do. You can park yourself somewhere here, I'll bring the car up the hill—"

Sam shook his head, sending his brother a reassuring look. "It's ok, Dean, I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

Redirecting his eyes to the path ahead, Dean growled again. "This has been one of the crappiest days, man."

"Yeah, well, you didn't fall on your face a thousand times and set a motel room on fire."

"A _rabbit's foot_. Smallest freakin' thing in the world, causin' all that trouble."

Sam gingerly stepped between two gravestones, clenching his teeth. "You weren't complaining about it when you were scratching all those tickets."

"You know, for about two seconds I'd actually forgotten about those damn tickets?" Finally reaching the car, Dean angrily swung the duffle bag from his shoulder and plonked it down onto the wet grass. "Thanks for reminding me, Sammy."

"What would we have done with all that money, anyway, Dean?"

"I dunno. Something fun." Dean unlocked the passenger door and the creak of the hinges sent a wave of relief through Sam's shoulder—he moved towards the open door with Dean's hand supportively on his arm and let out a thankful sigh the second his butt his the vinyl seat. "You ok?"

Sam nodded, leaning his head back. "Yeah, I'm good."

There was another creak as Dean pulled open the back door and leaned into the car. All Sam could hear was his brother rummaging around behind his seat and after a moment Dean reappeared next to him, crouching down outside the car.

He held out an old t-shirt.

"Hold this to your shoulder, keep pressure and try to stop the bleeding." Sam tiredly took the offered shirt and pressed it to his shoulder. "I'll get the bullet out back at the motel."

All Sam could do was make a face, clenching his teeth against a groan at the sudden pressure. "Ah crap—"

"Just…hold it there. Keep the bleeding under wraps—"

"Stupid friggin' rabbit's foot."

"Stupid friggin' limey bitch."

There was a flash of pain. "Ow!"

Dean cringed. "Sorry, dude." His movements instantly became gentle. "Forty-six grand, Sammy. Christ."

It was now _Sam_ that was breathing like a bull and he was desperately trying to keep the moisture pooling in his eyes from escaping. "We'll be ok without it."

"Yeah, sure we will, but that ain't the point."

"Then what _is_ the point?"

Dean narrowed his eyes, his patented _duh!_ look on his face. "The point is, Sasquatch, we could've done some serious damage and had some _serious_ fun with forty-six grand. New York? L.A.? Holy hell, _Vegas_!"

Sam chuckled through the pain. "At least you got your vivid imagination."

"Yeah, whatever, my imagination has _nothing_ on what could've actually happened."

Sam let his eyes slip closed and his head fall back against the familiarly dented headrest. The familiar scent of the vinyl seats—gun powder and Dean's leather jacket. The smell of the wet grass and soil wafting in through the open driver's window.

The unexpected feeling of Dean lightly squeezing his forearm.

"Don't go dreamin' anything x-rated while we're in the car together, Sammy."

"Shut up."

There was a quiet Dean-snort and despite the intense throbbing of his shoulder, the corner of Sam's mouth curled up. The last thing he heard was the creaking of hinges as his brother slid into his seat.

***

"Ok, dude. You ready for this?"

"I have a choice?"

"No, you don't." Dean held the small swiss army knife in his hand, the flame from his zippo licking at the metal. "You drinkin' that whiskey?"

He heard the clunk of a bottle against the table and a pained sigh. "I'm not drinking, Dean."

Dean felt his chest constrict only slightly at the strong declaration and imperceptibly shook his head.

_Stupid kid._

If he was honest with himself, he'd be able to admit out loud that he'd seen the change; the shift that had turned his little brother from a sensible hunter to a guy desperate to toughen his skin…desperate to become _more like Dean._ Dean knew it was in preparation—_subconscious_ preparation, maybe…but preparation all the same—for failure, for the hellhounds, for the end.

_Dean's_ end, but by way of the world it was _Sam's_ end too.

He snapped the zippo closed and watched as the heated metal of the knife slowly started to cool. Sam, who was sitting on the far bed, started to clench his teeth the very moment Dean started towards him. "Last chance for a shot, Sammy."

"Just do it."

And so Dean did.

Trying his damndest to ignore the agonized whimpering of his little brother and the almost suffocating pounding in his chest.

The angle at which the bullet from Bella's gun had gone into his shoulder required that it, quite literally, had to be _dug _out. Blood welled around the blade and Dean tried to move quickly, noticing the way the tendons in Sam's neck strained and the beads of sweat started appearing on his forehead.

"Hang tight, Sammy—" He said quietly, feeling through the blade when it made contact with the bullet. Sam let out a strained cry and Dean withdrew the knife, tossing it down onto the towel he'd spread across the bed's covers and grabbing the sterilized set of silver tweezers. "Bad part's over."

Within seconds he had the small bullet trapped in the tweezers and dropped into the small glass of water he'd put on the bedside table. The moment the bullet left his shoulder Sam seemed to almost deflate against the headboard of the bed. He opened his tear-filled eyes and took shuddering breaths, his hands clenched into tight fists.

Dean stood from his perch on the side of the bed and headed right into the washroom, trying not to cringe at the smears of blood he left on the faucet. The hot water nearly scalded the skin of his hands but he didn't care. Sam's blood on his skin, in between his fingers, under his nails…he had to get it _off_.

"Breathe easy, Sammy." He called out in the general direction of the doorway.

"I…I'm trying."

"Bet you're wishin' you had a little more of that J.D., huh?"

It was meant to lighten the mood and get rid of the '_Sammy's blood all over my hands'_ vibe that the older man was feeling. It tapped into some inner-big-brother outlet and re-awakened a kid that had spent the early years making sure a floppy-haired little squirt never bled.

Sam called out, "Stitches?"

"Give yourself a minute, dude." Dean quickly dried his hands and tossed the towel down onto the bathroom floor. He forced himself to take a deep and calming breath and when he walked back out into the main room, he sent his watery-eyed brother a small smile. "You ok?"

"Y'know how you said that one day you're gonna kill her?"

"The limey bitch? Yeah, seemed like you were against that; put on your bitch face and went, _'Dean'_—"

"Use the shotgun."

Dean, who had sat down on his own bed and started looking through the first aid kit, stopped what he was doing and looked up at his sensitive little brother's startlingly serious face. "The shotgun?"

"No rock salt…use buckshot."

"On Bella?"

"On Bella."

They stared at each other; Sam blinking tiredly, Dean blinking stupidly.

And once what little Sammy was saying resonated, Dean couldn't help it, he laughed. "Hell hath no fury like Sammy pissed off—" He kept on chuckling. "Can't say I blame you…chick's a pain in the ass."

"Yeah, well, she didn't shoot _you_."

"No, she stole my money."

"You ever going to get over that?"

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Are _you_ ever gonna get over being shot? You just told me to use _buckshot_, for Christ sake." On the bedside table he set down a needle and thread, a bottle of antiseptic and a small bundle of gauze pads. "Look alive, kiddo."

Dean moved back over to Sam's bed, and as gently as he could, wet one of the gauze pads with the antiseptic and started cleaning the skin around the bullet wound.

Someone else would've have seen it…they wouldn't have known where or _how_ to look. But Dean spotted it right away, the light shaking of Sam's entire left side. His right hand still hard at work cleaning, Dean placed his other hand on Sam's forearm. It was a means of silent encouragement and Sam responded the only way he could…he pushed his arm right into Dean's hand.

The sewing up of Sam's left shoulder went quickly, Dean doing what he could to keep the kid from quivering too much. The motel room was silent except for the occasional blare of a horn from the road outside or the growling of a loud muffler.

"Done and done." Dean stood from the bed for the second time, grabbing the soiled gauze pads and tossing them into the small garbage can beside the bedside table. "Take a pull from the bottle and get some sleep."

Sam shook his head, swallowing hard as he settled into his pillows—the ones from his bed _and _the ones from Dean's. "No booze."

"You're friggin' stubborn."

Sam let out a breathy laugh. "Where d'you think I get it from?"

Dean made an exaggerated _ha ha_ face and carried on with what he was doing; throwing away the sewing needle and replacing the thread and antiseptic in the first aid kit. He could feel Sam's eyes on him as he moved around the room and tried hard not to let it get to him—the unabashed trust, the blind faith.

_Blind faith._

It was a phrase the two brothers had thrown back and forth at each other since they were teenagers; Dean's blind faith in their father and Sam's blind faith in a world somewhere above their own…a world that offered more, _had_ more, _was _more. A world that offered _Stanford._

But no.

They were so far beyond all that now. Their father was dead after making a deal to save Dean's life. Sam was the only survivor of the Yellow Eyed Demon's celebrity death match. Sam had _died_ and Dean was going to _hell_. The issues of their teenage years seemed a lifetime away. They didn't matter. They _couldn't_ matter, not any more.

There was never any peace. They _never _hadpeace. Their lives were full of disappointment and rude shocks…painful goodbyes. On the outside Dean had accepted it, but on the inside he was rebelling and fighting against it with every fibre of his being. He was fighting because it was all he could do.

"Dean?"

Swallowing hard and clearing his throat, Dean shot a quick glance over his shoulder. "You ok?"

There was a short pause, and then, "Remember…my first soccer game? That small town outside Tulsa?"

Dean's hands froze and he slowly turned around, clenching a small towel in his hands almost convulsively. He remembered that game. Hell, it was probably the clearest memory he had. "Yeah, you uh—" He cleared his throat again. "That was the day you scored your first goal."

"In _my_ team's net."

Dean breathed a laugh, nodding his head.

Yeah, he remembered well.

The elementary school had been advertising soccer for the grade six classes and little Sammy had almost wet himself in his desire to play. Only with how much they travelled and how little they actually got to _play_ just for the hell of it, the kid had asked Dean to help him practice. They'd worked for days—kicking, passing, and messing around in the back of their motel using an old crate and a cardboard box as the goalposts and a half-deflated basketball that Dean had found sitting beside a dumpster.

The kid had made the team in about two and a half seconds and had been so excited when they played their first game that he'd scored his _first_ goal in his own net. He'd jumped and cheered until he'd noticed that his other teammates weren't exactly thrilled and had spent the rest of the game sitting on the team's bench in total disgrace.

But once he'd managed to get his miserable kid brother back to their motel, Dean had sat him down and convinced him that…ok, yeah, he'd scored in the wrong net…but it didn't matter. It didn't even come close to making a difference. The kid had worked hard, he'd been so excited, and he'd _scored a goal_.

Dean had been so proud and so happy for his little brother that it hadn't mattered how the goal had happened or why…all that mattered was the smile on Sam's face when the ball sailed into the net. It had been a rare smile, a once in a lifetime smile; and somehow, even at that young age, Dean had known it.

With the soft smile still on his face, Dean asked quietly, "What made you think of that?"

Sam shrugged. "I dunno. Kinda just…_popped_ in there."

_Yeah, Sammy…that's been happenin' to me a lot lately, too._

Feeling considerably mushy, Dean tossed the towel down onto the table and crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah, you wanted to quit playin' after that."

"The whole team hated me, of course I wanted to quit."

"Nah, they didn't hate you…they just—"

"Gave me the silent treatment, dirty looks, then conveniently forgot to invite me to the victory barbeque…which turned out to _not_ be a victory barbeque because there was no victory."

Dean blinked for a moment, then, "Yeah…yeah, they kinda hated you."

A chuckle. "Yeah."

"But look at it this way, Sammy—that goal was awesome."

"It was in the wrong net!"

"No, I know that, I'm just sayin'. You did well, you worked hard…all that practice."

Dean watched as Sam let his head fall back against the headboard with a thunk. The mood in the room shifted, the vibe changed…he could feel it.

The look on Sam's face was just as obvious as the change of atmosphere—he was getting wistful, taking one of his customary trips down the memory highway.

Since he'd made his deal, those moments were happening more and more often. Those thoughtful expressions, the random childhood memories that both men held so dear—even though Sam was a thousand times more open about it then Dean was.

The countdown had begun only a couple of weeks before but the toll it was already taking on their little universe was damn near excruciating.

_Get his mind off it. Change the subject._

Without saying a word, Dean headed back to the first aid kit and grabbed a brand new piece of gauze and some white medical tape. "Let's get you bandaged up."

Sam barely moved as Dean carefully taped the gauze to his wounded shoulder, only turning his head and looking when Dean started cleaning up the empty gauze wrappers.

"Thanks, Dean."

The softly spoken words stopped Dean short.

_A tiny little Sammy staring up at him with wide eyes and a wide smile._

"_Did you see me, Dean? Did you see me? Did you see what I did?"_

"_Good job, Sammy—try kickin' it this way."_

"_O-Ok--" _

_The little boy stumbled slightly, tripping over his own feet in his excitement. Dean called out. "Whoa, slow down there, champ…we got all day."_

"_I thought y-you were going to the movies?"_

_Dean shrugged, nudging the mangy old cardboard box with the toe of his sneaker. "Nah. Gonna hang out here."_

"_What a-about Meaghan?"_

_Dean looked over at his little brother, kicking around the deflated basketball as if he was in the middle of a crowded soccer stadium—eyes, cameras…a million people watching him. He couldn't help but smile. "Not important, dude. Come on, kick it over!"_

Dean blinked away the moisture that was _not_ collecting in his eyes and affectionately ruffled Sam's hair. "Get some sleep, dude. If you're up for it in the morning, we'll get outta here."

"Where we gonna go?"

"I dunno—" A discreet sniffle. "I was thinkin' we could head to Ohio. Bobby says there's omens down there, might be worth lookin' into."

"Omens?"

"Demonic omens. Your favourite."

Sam made a face and sighed. "Yeah, can't wait."

"Get some sleep, Sammy."

Sam nodded and slowly started to sit up. "Bathroom first."

He helped his brother to his feet and only let go of his arm after Sam insisted that he was ok crossing to the bathroom on his own.

The door gradually latched and Dean let out a breath, raking a hand through his short hair. He was tired, worn down, and it was only when Sam wasn't around that he let it bleed through to the surface. When he'd told Sam a couple of weeks before, after the ridiculously complicated fight against the Seven Deadly Sins, that he felt good (_"I feel good, for the first time in a long time"), _he hadn't been lying. He felt free, unhindered. The bars were gone from the windows, the doors were unlocked; making that deal was like being let out of the asylum.

Making that deal was like putting Sam in it.

And now they had the added stress of _Bella_, the bitch that only seemed capable of making their situation more and more complicated. She truly _was _a horrible person; using hunters and their gear to further her own profits, her own gain. He couldn't imagine being that way, having that kind of knowledge and manipulating it in such a way to suit himself.

He wouldn't lie to himself and say that he didn't use his image, his uber bachelor front that hunting instilled in him, to attract members of the fairer sex. But that was totally different. _He _wasn't depriving the world's hunters of amulets, spells and occult objects that could make the difference between a dead supernatural baddie and a dead mother of four.

"Dean."

Sam's gentle voice broke in with the force of a sledgehammer and Dean looked over towards the bathroom. Sam stood there, loyally and quietly, leaning against the doorframe. "Sammy, you done?"

"You ok?"

Dean swallowed and gave a small nod. "Yeah, dude, I'm fine. Just thinkin'."

"'Bout what?"

"Reno…the slots…poker…the penthouse at some crazy expensive hotel—"

Sam arched an eyebrow. "The forty-six grand? Dude, seriously."

"You know you wanted it, too. Coulda gotten you that haircut we've talkin' about for, y'know, _years_."

There was a mumble, but Dean was sure he made out the words "smart" and "ass". All he could do was chuckle to himself.

They left for Ohio the next morning, Sam not complaining once about being folded into the car like a slinky with his injured shoulder. They made small talk—the weather, the condition of the roadways and how hellacious dirt roads were on the Impala's suspension…and last but not least, the haircut of the century that Dean still wanted Sam to get, lottery tickets or not.

The omens Bobby had told them about where centered in Ohio—Elizabeth Town to be exact—and they were in need of a good hunt, something to sink their teeth into.

With the countdown to the arrival of the hellhounds haunting their steps and their thoughts every single day, they had silently agreed to make the best of things…the _most_ of every moment.

And if bickering about slot machines and long over-due haircuts helped them do that, then they were both as close to being at peace as they were going to get.

_END_


	10. N

**N is for Nemesis  
**

Nemesis (n): an unbeatable opponent. A source of harm or ruin.

Warning: They're hunters that were raised by an ex-marine. Here be some cursin'.

* * *

With a sigh of tired frustration, he snapped the lid of the well-used laptop closed.

His attention span—which was minimal on his best days—was nearly non-existent. His concentration, what little he had left anyway, was aimed at the farthest bed and the Sammy-shaped lump curled up under the blankets.

It'd been three days.

He could still feel the bitter cold of the water covering his hands and making his bones ache. The heart-stopping panic exploding in his chest. Sam's wide eyes staring up at him from below the glassy surface, his fingers reaching up out of the water and grasping the sleeve of Dean's leather jacket with a kind of desperation that Dean never again wanted to see on his little brother's face.

_Dad would've figured it out. Dad would've recognized the signs. Dad would've gotten Sammy somewhere safe._

Dean couldn't help but wince.

It had been weeks since he'd been cleared to leave the hospital; the cut above his eye was all but healed, his ribs (while still tender when he moved just _that_ way) were a thousand times better than they were. But his mind, his perpetually tortured psyche? Well. It'd seen better days.

He didn't want Sam to know. Because even though he'd been treating the kid like crap—either snarling at him or ignoring him—he was still a big brother, and with everything else in their lives dissolving, his _strength_, whether it existed at that moment or not, was a big part of their foundation. The nightmares plaguing his nights however were getting harder and harder to keep to himself. Horrendous nightmares where blood leaked through his pores and the sounds of his screams resonated in his ear drums…where the bright headlights of the semi practically burned through his closed eyelids…the jarring impact and the smashing glass. He relived it every night, bolting awake and teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

He was _fighting_ to keep hold of himself and because he'd been impatient…because he'd been _antsy_…he'd nearly lost the one person left in his life worth holding onto.

When it came to Sam, Dean hadn't even tried to make excuses for how he'd been behaving. Truth was he didn't even know where to start. Every time he nearly tore Sammy's head off with cruel sarcasm or misplaced fury it was like he was having an out of body experience—he could _see_ it happening, _hear _it and _feel_ it…but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't keep his damn mouth shut and the emotions bottled up inside him where they belonged.

Since the days of his childhood he'd honestly and truly believed that his father was invincible; there was nothing, absolutely nothing that could take down John Winchester, whether human or supernatural, it didn't matter. His father always won.

Except the one time he didn't.

There was a light sigh from across the room and Dean's head snapped up, his eyes widening in hope and squinting through the darkness at the same time.

"Sammy?"

There was no response of any kind—no twitch of a finger, no restless movements of long legs under the covers. Just silence. The same kind of silence that he'd been living with for three days.

But just in case, he stood from his chair.

Dean crossed the room with cautious and quiet steps, moving to stand in between their two double beds. The mop of familiar chocolate brown hair was poking out from underneath the covers and the little bit of Sam's face that he could see was still as pale as it had been days beforehand.

As carefully as he could, he brushed aside the feather soft bangs and touched the backs of his fingers to Sam's forehead.

_Oh yeah…nice fever you got goin', little brother._

He shook his head to himself and the manner in which he was touching Sam's skin changed; it was no longer diagnostic…just affectionate, concerned.

It was pitiful that Dean could only show that kind of warmth when Sam wasn't aware enough to know about it.

He couldn't help but miss the days when his little brother had really and truly been _little_…so small, so innocent, so easy to stow away and protect. Back then all he'd needed to do was grab him and hug him, fight away the bullies and the monsters, bravely search every dark closet and under every bed.

It seemed that the older they got, the more strength was needed to keep Sam safe.

And after the events of those few days—the freezing cold, the screaming, the thrashing water—Dean couldn't help but wonder if his new weakness was putting his brother in more danger than the supernaturals they spent their lives hunting.

* * *

**Then...**

_They rolled in on Monday…_

_

* * *

_

"Battle Lake, Minnesota."

Sam very nearly groaned as he unfolded his tall frame from the passenger seat of the Impala. After nearly three days of driving, only stopping when the car needed gas or Dean ran out of coffee, he could honestly say that he'd never felt more like a slinky in his entire life.

"Thought we'd never get here."

"You losin' faith in my sense of direction, Sammy?"

"Did you know Dean that a short cut, by definition, is supposed to make a trip _shorter_?"

"Dude." Dean frowned. "It was only an hour—"

"Three and a half."

He paused, his frown slipping only slightly. "What?"

"Three and a half hours. You took the east bound ramp when I told you to take the west bound. Remember?"

The frown was back. "I hate to tell you this, Magellan, but heading _west_ would've had us miss Battle Lake by about twenty miles."

"On what planet?"

"On what pla—you know what, nevermind."

The driver's door closed with a slam and a familiar creak of hinges.

Sam couldn't quite hear the mutters due to the light breeze that suddenly blew over them, but "know-it-all" and "smart ass" were clearly audible.

The younger brother was grinning by the time his duffel bag was thrown indignantly towards him.

They were in and out of the small motel's office within minutes, Dean leading the way with his duffel in one hand and the room key in the other. Both brothers were tired and sore and the idea of a warm—albeit lumpy—bed was almost enough to make the oldest of the two groan in euphoria.

"I'm serious, dude—" He stuck the key in the lock. "I want food."

"Shower first."

"_Food_ first."

As the room door was pushed open Sam sighed and made his way to the far bed, setting down his bag. "Cleanliness is next to godliness, Dean."

"Yeah, but ust think, Sammy; what are you gonna die from quicker? Goin' grunge for another couple hours? Or not eating."

"Dean, we're talking half an hour…_max_."

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Yeah, well…I don't wanna take no chances."

The booths in the small diner down the street from their motel were comfortable (Sam wincing when he bashed his knee on the center pole of the table), the small laminated menus were glanced at quickly and orders were placed within minutes of walking in, because hey, they were on the verge of starving to death.

Speaking around a mouthful of mashed potatoes, Dean gestured towards himself. "Lay it on me."

"I've been checking some of the local papers—" The leather satchel was beside Sam on the bench booth and he reached inside, pulling out a few newspaper cut-outs. "Check it out." He slid the first one across the surface of the table, his finger pointing directly at the headline; Dean's eyes followed. "There's a pretty major river just a couple miles South of Elbow Lake. It's popular with the kids—they have tire swings put up, recreation areas, that kinda thing."

"When did it all start?"

"About a month ago. Local teacher takes her grade four class up to the river for a field trip. The kids scattered as soon as they got off the bus. Chris Hillard, 8years old, drowned in the river after falling in."

Dean winced, a deep worry line appearing between his eyes.

It wasn't a secret that cases involving kids struck a thicker cord in the older Winchester. They'd criss-crossed the country countless times over the years and apart from his intense and often short-lived relationships with women, Dean was always remembered most by the kids; Michael in Fitchburg and Lucas in Lake Manitoc. Kids were drawn to his brother and Sam had known that for years; he was a born father, used to and comfortable with messy meals and Batman pyjamas with booties…shoe-lace tying lessons and finger painting…soccer games, girls and well-oiled baseball gloves.

But those days were long gone.

Dean was _now_ an expert in studying, tracking, hunting and killing supernaturals…making six hour drives in under four…and not to mention charming and seducing attractive diner waitresses everywhere.

But the undercurrent of upset on Dean's face at the news of the young victim didn't go unnoticed. Sam could see the thunderous anger in Dean's eyes, even though for the most part his face remained expressionless. The king of stoicism.

"So no one noticed this kid wander off?"

Sam shrugged. "Twenty-two kids, running all over the place. The teacher, Rose Tillman, said that she didn't even realize he was missing."

Dean's eyes darkened slightly. "You look into the history of the town?"

"Apart from a teen suicide about twenty-two years ago, the town's clean. The _river_ though—" He pulled out another newspaper clipping and slid it towards Dean. "Over the past ten years, there have been nearly two-dozen deaths—all drowning."

"All kids?"

"A good number of them are children" Sam said quietly. "But I haven't found a pattern yet. Not in ages, genders or nationalities—"

"So it's random." Dean sighed, running a hand down his tanned face. "That's just…_awesome._"

"I'm thinking it's some kind of water spirit."

"Water spirit?"

"A Japanese water spirit, maybe."

Dean's one eyebrow shot up. "_Japanese_? Kinda…country confused, isn't it?"

The corner of Sam's mouth twitched slightly but the small amount of humour disappeared quickly. "Dean…we gotta stop this thing."

Dean nodded tightly. "Yeah, we do." After a moment of silence, he cleared his throat and said, "Ok…so…we know that there's something in the river either _pushing_ people in or _pulling_ them in. We know that most of the victims are kids, random ages. And your geekified brain is tellin' you that it's a Japanese water spirit." Slight scepticism took over his face. "Now what? 'Cause I gotta tell you, Sammy, I'm not exactly up-to-date in exterminating the _Japanese_ baddies."

Sam drained what was left of his now cold coffee and started gathering the photocopies and clippings. "I'll do some research first thing tomorrow—hit the library, look through some of the archives. We should talk to that teacher too; Rose Tillman. Maybe she felt something or saw something weird."

"I thought she didn't see anything?"

"Yeah, well," Sam smiled that time. "She didn't see anything when she talked to the _Hillards_ and the cops…maybe it'll be different when she talks to us."

Dean nodded slowly, taking a quick glance around the semi-crowded restaurant. "I don't know, man—" He let out a long breath. "Something doesn't feel right about this."

Sam, who'd been scanning one of the newspaper clippings, looked up and frowned slightly; it was a frown without heat…it was a frown that showed concern.

When Dean got _that feeling_, it was something they needed to pay attention to.

"What do you mean?"

"I dunno. Just…somethin' stinks." Shaking his head slightly, he leaned forward in his seat and lowered his voice; Sam mirrored the posture, listening intently. "How can an _entire_ town not notice that half-a-dozen kids have died down by that river?"

"Some people don't pay attention like we do, Dean."

"Still doesn't feel right to me, dude."

Seeing an opportunity to lighten the cloud that had descended over his big brother's aura, Sam pulled his mouth into a half-smile and rapped on the table top once with a knuckle. "Remember that time you were _convinced_ that tree in Columbus was actually some sort of diminutive deity? Trying to…communicate by systematically placing pieces of bark and fungus?"

Dean coloured slightly. "What about it?"

"That instinct tingling again? Is that what's…going on here?"

Dean's eyes slid upwards and locked on Sam's; he made an overly exaggerated _ha ha_ face. "You thought the same damn thing, don't lie."

Even though there was still suspicion and disguised worry on the older man's face, the cloud slowly disappeared and left behind someone a little looser…a little more comfortable and relaxed.

Sam smiled again.

"Right, because we're _always_ running into ficus trees that do that—"

"Shut up."

* * *

_The research began on Tuesday…_

_

* * *

_

"_Japanese…_water spirits."

He clicked the mouse dejectedly.

"Water spirits. From Japan."

From his seat at the truly decrepit old computer, Dean focused his eyes and watched as Sam scanned a nearby bookshelf; his tall frame relaxed and completely at home among the dusty books and creaky floorboards.

They'd finally found the small library in Battle Lake. The problem? They didn't keep or maintain any kind of newspaper archive; no computers, no back-lit viewing boards…nothing that would help them check into the previous deaths in more detail. The old librarian had told them—only after Sam's dimpled smile had broken down her defences—that the library in Fergus Falls kept complete records of all local newspapers, therefore anything they might need would most likely be there. _"I play bridge with Mildred, the librarian down there," _she'd said, her wrinkled cheeks reddening when Sam smiled at her again. _"I'll give her a call and tell her to get you anything you boys need."_

After a quick thirty minute drive and some much deserved teasing about Sam's book loving admirer, they'd arrived in Fergus Falls, parking the Impala just a few steps walk from the library's front entrance. They'd then set to work—Sam immediately going to the bookshelves and Dean immediately going towards the computers, foolishly hoping that they'd be _more fun_.

They'd been there for four hours.

And he wasn't having fun.

"So, tell me somethin', Sammy," Dean said as his brother approached their small table, a stack of books in hand. "A Japanese water spirit. What's up with that?"

Sam frowned. "What d'you mean?"

"Well, I mean—why here? Why now? This damn thing's been gankin' kids for ten years. How the hell did it get here?"

"It could've been anything. Remember that apple tree in the orchard?"

Dean nodded, his eyes flashing in recognition—the Pagan god, the scarecrow, the raging argument that had resulted in leaving Sam in the middle of the road…and then the relief he felt when he realized who was coming to his rescue.

_Forget everything I said. I am so happy to see you. How'd you get here?_

_Stole a car._

_That's my boy!_

_You stand up to dad. Man, I wish I…_

_I'm proud of you, Sammy._

"Immigrants could've brought it over somehow; maybe it had attached itself to a particular family."

Dean cleared his throat before the sap reached toxic levels.

"Any Japanese families in town?"

Sam shook his head, worrying his bottom lip. "They left town, end of July 1993."

"Ten years ago. Right around the time the killings started."

"Seems that the spirit didn't leave with the family it came with."

"Ok, so…the family leaves, the spirit stays behind…gets pissed off and starts drowning kids?"

Letting out a loud sigh, Sam plunkered himself down into the creaky old chair beside Dean and proceeded to spread out the papers that he'd collected from the printer over an hour before. "I finally found a pattern," he leaned a little closer. "And…you're not gonna like it."

Dean didn't say anything. He merely braced himself.

"Every one of the victims…was either a younger brother or a younger sister."

_Stop. Rewind._

Dean narrowed his eyes and focused on the fine print.

"What?"

Sam started speaking quickly, the way he often did when excited or when trying to get the words out before Dean blew his stack.

"Dean, they were _all_ younger siblings—maximum, six years in age difference." He grabbed one of the papers and handed it over. "David Mills died six years ago after falling into the river. He was seventeen and had an older brother, Adam, who was twenty-two and going to school a couple states away down in Illinois." Another paper. "Tabitha James. She was twelve and _also_ had an older brother—Charlie, who was sixteen." Another paper. "Asher Wilkes. He was twenty-six and had an older sister, Megan, who was thirty—"

"Ok, ok, just," Dean held up a hand in a _slow down_ kind of way and then squeezed the bridge of his nose, as if the action would help make sense of the madness…or get rid of the headache that was quickly taking over his entire head.

"No definite pattern other than the fact they were all kid siblings."

"No, that's it."

"Maximum six year difference." _Four year difference between us; we fit…Sammy fits. _Dean sighed. "This is…_awesome._"

"Look, we'll just do some more research and get started." Sam's voice was irritatingly soothing and Dean felt himself relax only slightly. "Maybe go down to the river and check things out—"

"We're not goin' anywhere _near_ that river until we know for sure what's goin' on." Dean pushed aside the papers, his face all business. "Let's just find out how to kill the son of a bitch."

Sam merely nodded, his face pinched.

* * *

_The arguing started on Wednesday…_

_

* * *

_

"Dean, will you just listen to me, please?"

They were in their motel room—Sam on one side, sitting at the table…and Dean on the other, his stance rigid and completely no nonsense.

Dean's will was as solid and immovable as a brick wall. Sam should know—he'd been banging his head against it for nearly two hours.

"I've been listening to you all friggin' morning, Sam. Doesn't make a difference."

"Why are you wound so tight over this?"

"_Why_?"

Dean's voice was practically dripping with '_are you serious?'_ and Sam sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "Since the Toyama family left, every death has been someone directly linked to the town. Just because I'm a younger sibling passing through doesn't mean I'm a target."

"Or maybe it means you're next."

"Dean—"

"Sam."

Dean's outrageously hard hazel eyes swept across the room to land on his younger brother and Sam felt himself tense in nervousness. He always got the fidgets when Dean looked at him that way; it was instinct, a reflex that he'd had since he was a kid. Whenever Dean had looked at him _like that_ he meant business and Sam had always felt a tug within his very being to obey, to listen and to trust.

Dean's _hard eyes_ expression had changed drastically since the days of their childhood. They'd gotten older, far more experienced, and in a way, far more intimidating. When they were kids those eyes had protected him from bullies and any possibility of scraped knees…they now protected him from monsters, torture and everything in between.

Sam swallowed and spoke in a deliberately calming voice. "Dean, what if was going after _big_ brothers? Or…guys with a soft spot for diner waitresses or muscle cars? What then? You'd wanna hit the road? Put Battle Lake in your rear-view and never look back?"

"No,_ I_ wouldn't…but _you_ would."

Sam merely blinked, not able to come up with anything remotely intelligent to say.

He _would_ want to hit the road and he knew it. If something threatened Dean, there'd be no stopping him—they'd be packed, in the car, and on the road before Dean could get a word in edgewise.

But this was different.

This _wasn't_ Dean.

_Dean_ wasn't the one being threatened.

"This thing's pickin' its victims and you're exactly what it's lookin' for, Sam." Dean crossed the room and grabbed his duffel bag from the end of Sam's bed. "Come on, we're leaving."

"Where are we going?"

"I don't care, as long as it's _away_."

Dean spoke in a voice that still carried a rather substantial big brother authority and once again Sam felt the tug within himself to fall in line and trudge along loyally out to the car. But even though he _trudged along loyally_ often, it'd been years since he'd last fallen in line. He stayed with Dean because the stubborn ass was all he had left, he was his family, and because he knew he wouldn't be able to survive without him. He stayed with Dean because he was his brother and his best friend and because he missed him like he would a limb when they were apart.

He watched as Dean threw on his leather jacket, patting down the pockets for the car keys. He looked flustered, confused, as if his only thought, his only worry, was getting the hell out as quickly as possible.

"Dean, just—"

"Pack your crap, Sam, we're gone."

Sam sighed, standing stiffly from his chair. "We haven't finished _here_ yet."

"And we're not going to. You fit the pattern; for all we know, this damn thing's just biding its time out there somewhere."

"You're really paranoid, you know that?"

"Not paranoia, its common sense."

"So leaving this thing here to kill more people, more _kids_…someone else's kid brother…_that's_ common sense?"

It was a cheap shot and the moment the words left Sam's mouth he knew it.

It was only for Sam that Dean would be willing to do such a thing. Only for Sam would he be willing to leave a job half-assed, unfinished. Only for Sam would he drop everything and run with his tail between his legs. Only for Sam would Dean leave other older brothers and sisters to face the _one thing_ he couldn't stand facing himself.

When Dean looked over, his eyes, his entire face had deadened. Sam just rose a placating hand—_sorry —_and shook his head.

After a few moments he tried again, speaking quietly and recognizing the fact that Dean still hadn't moved a muscle. "Dean. Let's just…stay one more day, ok?" He swallowed. "I'll dig a bit more and maybe we'll come up with something."

Dean shifted his balance, evenly, to both legs and seemed to steel himself. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"You think you got somethin' to prove? Is that what this is?"

Sam frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"You doin' this because it's what dad would've wanted?"

_Yeah. Ouch._

Feeling the pained expression take over his own face, Sam sighed, "It's not about that—"

"Oh, it's not."

"No, it's not."

"Then what is it?

"It's about wanting to finish what we started," Sam shot back, somewhat darkly. "It's about doing what we came here to do. We _need_ to do this."

Dean's eyes flashed. "There are plenty of other hunters in the world, Sam. We'll call Bobby, he'll know who's around. They can handle it."

"How can you not wanna do this? _You're_ a big brother, Dean. This case doesn't piss you off?"

Those words were like a hit with a sledgehammer.

Dean had to literally fight to keep his voice steady, "Yeah it pisses me off. I wanna kill this thing a thousand times in the name of big brothers and sisters everywhere. But this is one case, _Sam_, that _you_ shouldn't be anywhere near."

"Nothing's gonna happen to me, Dean—"

"How do you know that?"

"'Cause I got you."

Sam watched as, quite literally, the darkness melted away from Dean's face. What was left behind was pure bewilderment—an '_ah hell, I wasn't expectin' __that'_ kind of expression. Sam felt himself smile a very tiny smile. "I trust you, Dean."

And Sam genuinely believed that.

All the others—David Mills, Tabitha James, Asher Wilkes—they hadn't had a _Dean_ to watch over them with a freckled smile and a devil-may-care attitude.

_As long as I'm around? Nothin' bad is gonna happen to you._

Dean seemed to recognize the disastrous direction the conversation had turned in and sighed—a truly pained and longsuffering kind of sigh.

"Jesus Christ, Sammy."

With those words, Sam knew it was ok to switch on the laptop again.

* * *

_The interviews started Wednesday night…_

_

* * *

_

The second the lemonade touched his tongue, Dean couldn't help but take a quick look around before spitting it back into his glass. _Too sweet; damn teeth are gonna rot outta my friggin' head._

_Blech._

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam, who was sitting beside him, staring at him in complete astonishment; eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Mrs. Tillman was puttering around in the kitchen and Dean made a face in return, silently asking '_what?'_

It was only when Mrs. Tillman came back into the room that Sam somehow managed to wipe the stunned expression of his face and send her a dimpled smile.

"So, you were asking about Christopher?"

Sam was officially the champ.

In a move that always left even Dean somewhat speechless, Sammy's smile faded away and was replaced with a look of such warm understanding, the older man was surprised that Tillman didn't melt into the couch cushion.

With her thick glasses and greying hair, Rose Tillman was exactly what Dean pictured in his mind when he thought of a homely third grade teacher. When they'd arrived at the house she'd smiled at them, welcomed them inside and offered them the truly _god-awful_ lemonade, but hey, it was the thought that counted. It wasn't very often that Dean felt sorry for the people they spoke to—that was more Sam's bag—but he couldn't help but feel affection for the woman sitting across from them, absent-mindedly fussing with the closest throw pillow.

Reaching forward, he placed his full glass back onto the home-made coaster and adjusted his suit jacket, settling in to watch Sammy work.

"Yes, ma'am." Sam intertwined his fingers and leaned forward. "We were just wondering if you could tell us what you remember about that day."

"But I already spoke to the police."

He didn't miss a beat. "Yes, we understand that Mrs. Tillman. And we hate to bother you so suddenly, but we've been assigned the follow up on Christopher's death. Any information you could give us, we'd really appreciate it."

_Atta boy._

She let out a gentle sigh and nodded her head, as if mentally preparing herself. After a moment, she said, "I didn't even notice Christopher leave the group. The kids were restless, stuck indoors even though it was so nice outside, you know. Once the doors to the bus opened, they just ran in every direction. Christopher must've gone towards the water."

She slipped a little on the little boy's name and Sam cleared his throat, speaking only in an effort to give her a moment to get control of herself. "Did you notice anything strange that day?"

Dean put in, "Any…chills or cold spots? Strange voices? Flies or mosquitoes?"

"Well, it was a little colder down near the water but in my experience that's pretty common." She blinked. "And of course there were insects; we were in the woods."

Dean made a _huh_ face while Sam cleared his throat, glancing over at his dumbfounded brother. "What about voices, Mrs. Tillman?"

"Well, there were the kids. Screaming and fussing, you know."

Sam merely nodded, seeming to recognize when he wasn't getting anywhere. "Can you tell us what happened when you realized Christopher was missing?"

"I started to panic, of course." She wrung her hands somewhat nervously. "I tried to ask the other kids where he'd gone, I called out to him but he wouldn't answer me. I had two volunteers from the high school with me and I asked them to watch the rest of the kids while I went to look for Christopher."

"And you found him down near the river?"

Mrs. Tillman nodded and Dean nearly groaned when he saw moisture pool in the older woman's blue eyes. "He…loved boats. Loved water." She sent them a watery smile. "We did an assignment at the beginning of the year, _'what do you want to be when you grow up?'_. Christopher wanted to be a sea boat captain, you know, on one of those big oil tankers?" Sam returned her smile. "He was fascinated with seeing the world, traveling. I think it was because he grew up in such a small town, never really got out much." She sniffled and looked down at her hands.

Her next words were more to herself than anyone else. "I _told_ the kids to stay away from the river."

Dean and Sam locked eyes for the shortest instant and their communication was lightening quick.

_This was a bad idea, Sammy._

_We'll be outta here in ten._

_The old girl doesn't look like she'll last another ten._

Sam's headshake was visible only to Dean and the younger man sighed, reaching forward to pluck a tissue from the box sitting on the coffee table. "Mrs. Tillman." He gently held it out to her and she smiled another watery smile as she took it, immediately using it to wipe her eyes. "We know that this is upsetting for you."

"Oh," She waved the tissue dismissively. "I'm sorry to be like this, agents."

"No, please don't be sorry. We understand."

Dean nudged Sam's arm. "Maybe we should get going for now. Come back later if we need anything else?"

_Like I said, Sammy…the old girl ain't gonna last another ten._

Sam nodded and returned his attention to the woman as if nothing at all had happened. "Yeah, I think that's a good idea." The two stood from their seats and when Mrs. Tillman stood as well, Sam held out a hand to her. "Thank you very much, again, for seeing us, Mrs. Tillman."

* * *

"I'm tellin' you, man, that was a waste of time."

The front steps of Mrs. Tillman's house were chipped and weathered and Sam had to actually watch where he put his feet so he wouldn't fall on his face. "Well, it was worth a shot."

"Worth a shot? Sammy, she gave us nothing."

The Impala was parked magnificently down by the curb and Dean's very _aura_ seemed to lighten once they were in sight of it. He made his way to the driver's side while Sam crossed over towards the shotgun seat. Dean rested his arms on the roof of his baby and looked across.

"All we learned from her is that she can't keep track of twenty 8 year olds."

Sam quirked an eyebrow. "Could _you_?"

Dean pointed at him. "Hey, so not the point. And besides, _I_ ain't a teacher. The only rug rat _I_ had to keep track of was you."

"Yeah, and you were a pro."

"Damn right I was."

The two brothers grinned at each other across the roof of the Impala and after just a moment's hesitation and a quick fixing of their jackets they slid into their respective seats.

* * *

"I'm just surprised to see you guys back so soon, is all."

The small police station in Battle Lake, as opposed to every other police service in the Northern Hemisphere, was only open for business at irregular hours and it'd taken nearly all day to get in touch with a desk sergeant so they could make an appointment.

The moment they'd arrived at the small station and flashed their 'badges', however, it hadn't taken long for the gnarly police captain to make his way down the hallway and introduce himself to the town's newest federal agents.

"We've been assigned the follow up, Captain Evans." Dean smiled snidely, feeling Sam shift slightly in his seat. "It's kind of a…_federal_ thing, you understand."

He _felt_ Sam roll his eyes as opposed to seeing it, but dammit, he couldn't help it. The two of them had been in the Captain's office for all of ten minutes and Dean already couldn't _stand_ him. His very presence was irritating. There was a ridiculously unearned smugness radiating of off every inch of the man and for a small-time Barney Fife?

_Pfft._

Sam's foot made not-so-gentle contact with the leg of Dean's chair in a not-so-silent '_shut the hell up'_. Always the more diplomatic of the two, he said, "What my partner means to say, Captain Evans, is that the Bureau's Cold Case Initiative _includes_ the deaths down at the river. Two dozen people over ten years isn't something we can ignore anymore."

"And since Christopher Hillard is the most recent, we need all the information you can give us."

"Y'know, that's an 8 year old boy you're talking about," Evans was glaring daggers at Dean. "I think he deserves a little more respect than being called _the most recent_."

Sam raised his hands in a placating gesture and sat forward in his chair. "Ok, now, let's just all…get back on track here, _ok_?" He looked pointedly at Dean and then changed his expression so fast, the older brother was surprised he didn't pull something. "We were wondering if you had the photos of when Christopher was pulled from the water."

Evans frowned. "Your boys over in Cold Cases don't have those photos already?"

"We've seen photos of Christopher's body but not of the crime scene itself; the riverbank and the surrounding area."

It never failed to amaze Dean how freaky good little Sammy was when it came to being a _fancy cop_. Screw law school, the kid should've gone federal.

And hell, not only was he good at it he was also telling the stone cold truth. They'd seen photographs of the victim's body but _not_ of the riverbank; which is exactly what they needed to see.

They also needed to get out there with the EMF meters and the infra-red scanners, not to mention Dean needed to keep an _extra_ eye on Sammy; as if the one eye he kept on the monster and the one eye he _already_ kept on his brother wasn't enough.

But that was ok. It was Sammy. And if keeping his Sammy safe meant splitting his attention even more than usual than he was all for it.

He quickly realized he wasn't paying attention.

"…whatever I can. Have you been down to the river since you arrived in town?"

Sam was shaking his head, looking painfully serious. "Not yet. We've been busy taking care of other things since we got here."

"Ok, then," Evans sighed and lowered himself into his squeaky leather chair and Dean had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the distinctive _flatulent_-like noise that erupted the second the man's butt hit the cushion. "Where are you staying?"

Dean got his wits back. "Just at the motel over on Glen Haven."

"Ok. I'll rustle up those photographs and anything else I can find on Christopher Hillard and the other victims. I'll have an officer bring it by your hotel tonight."

Sam nodded and sent the man a polite smile, extending his hand as he said, "Thank you for your help, Captain."

Evans merely waved a hand at them absent-mindedly, his eyes glued to a small stack of paperwork on his desk.

Dean took the opportunity to send a truly childish face at the man over Sam's shoulder as he unceremoniously elbowed him out the door.

* * *

"So, uh…" Sam was drumming his hands on his knees. "What's uh…up with you today?"

Hands firmly on the steering wheel, Dean furrowed his brow. "What d'you mean?"

"Well, you've been kind of…pushin' the envelope today."

"In what way?"

A snide smirk took over Sam's face and it was so out of character for him, it was damn near startling_. "It's kind of a _federal_ thing, you understand."_

As the light bulb above his head lit up, Dean couldn't help but smile. "Oh, you were _mocking_ me. That was _mockery_ right there." Sam laughed, resting his head against the headrest. "Don't ever get a look like that on your face again, Sammy; it's not your style."

"Yeah, whatever. Seriously man, what was going on in there?"

"I dunno. He just…pissed me off."

"Pissed you off?"

"Sittin' there in his schmucky little office. He has _no_ idea."

Dean saw Sam nod out of the corner of his eye and let out a breath. "He knows people in this town, Dean. It's personal for him."

"Yeah, whatever."

"Alright, so, how about we grab dinner and head back to the motel." He yawned a little Sammy yawn. Yet _another_ thing that hadn't changed. "I wanna grab another book from the trunk and get some reading done."

"What, you think you missed something before?"

"No, just wanted to make sure."

Dean smiled. "Sammy, our resident over-achiever."

A small silence fell in the car and it was broken only when Sam swallowed louder than usual. Dean could feel it coming, and whatever it was—whether a chick flick moment or otherwise—it was gonna be painful.

Painful for the younger one or painful for the older one, who knew.

"Are you still…you know…thinking that you want to bail?"

_Ok, painful for the older one._

Did he want to bail?

Yeah, you're damn right he did.

The one thing that kept jumping out at him, loud and in color, was the fact that the victims...every single one of them…was someone else's Sammy. There were two dozen big brothers and sisters within Battle Lake's boundaries that had lost the person that had made them a big brother or sister.

He had lost Sam once, when the kid had taken off to California; but the difference was that if Dean needed to, if he'd ever gotten to the point where he couldn't _stand_ it, he could've picked up the phone and called. He could've heard Sam's voice and reassured himself that the little bitch was alive and well. Those other big brothers and sisters couldn't do that. _Jesus Christ, 8 years old._

Dean cleared his throat and hitched a shoulder, grasping onto the steering wheel almost convulsively. "The victims are all kid siblings, Sammy…what do _you_ think?"

Sam, for the first time in his history, didn't remark back. No chick flick moment was initiated, no sap started flowing, no warm and soothing facial expressions that made Dean both relax and bristle.

There was just a nod of the head and a very quiet, "Yeah."

* * *

_They were checking out the river by Thursday morning…_

_

* * *

_

Some people found serenity in enjoying nature.

Dean Winchester found it by putting holes in it.

Sam watched as the Bowie knife swiped down on the next unsuspecting hanging branch and he stifled the snort at Dean's loud groan. "God, I _hate_ the outdoors."

"Come on, Dean, look on the bright side. We're not camping."

"Yeah, whatever." The knife came down again. "Why is it that all the hunts that take a friggin' week end up with us _spelunking_ into the forbidden forest?"

He snorted that time. "Hey, I'm pretty sure _spelunking_ means cave diving." Sam came to a slow stop and blinked owlishly. "And did you just make a reference to _Harry Potter_?"

Dean coloured lightly under his freckles but kept on walking, the EMF meter already out of his pocket and live in his hand. "Not a twitch." He glanced back at Sam. "We goin' the right way?"

He looked down at the map. "Yeah…just…keep heading straight ahead."

"Makes me wonder how all these kids even found it. _We_ can't even find it."

"We have a map and all the time in the world. We're fine."

"Well, Magellan, can you channel your inner Columbus and find us a path through…these…" Dean trailed off rather lamely as the familiar shrieking broke the silence, the red lights on the EMF meter blinking and flashing.

"Dean—" Sam came up beside him, frowning down at the squawking meter. "Got something?"

"Yeah." Looking around, Dean mimicked Sam's frown. "Something."

"So do we follow the map or the meter?"

The gigantic shriek that came from the meter made both men widen their eyes.

"I vote meter."

As Dean started stumbling along through the twigs and underbrush, Sam nodded, "Yeah, ditto," and followed dutifully.

The trail of EMF finally led them out of the trees and into a clearing. The light breeze rustled through the long grass and made Dean shiver but not one of his muscles moved; he was still and focused, his hazel eyes narrowing as he studied every inch of the open space. He was conscious of Sam's presence right behind him, and as he did before letting Sam enter _anywhere_, he first reassured himself that there was no threat, nothing coming at them or for them.

It was only then that the mental barrier lifted and Sammy stepped forward, moving to stand once again at Dean's shoulder.

He pointed. "River's up that way, according to the map."

Neither brother commented on whether it was the meter or the map that finally led them to the river bank, but the moment Dean's hiking boots and Sam's sneakers sunk into the mud, the antenna was snapped back into place and the meter was stowed away back in Dean's jacket pocket.

Sam was already crouched down, looking with a trained hunter's eye at the surface of the water.

"Twenty-four people died right here."

Dean shook his head, still scanning the clearing while letting Sam look everywhere else.

His instincts were flaring and it felt like every fine hair on the back of his neck was standing on end.

_There's something here._

He'd always prided himself on _knowing_…_feeling_ when there was something around that shouldn't be. It was one of the things that made him such a good hunter; supernaturals left almost like an electrical charge in the air and Dean's entire body was fine-tuned to capture it and recognize it.

His father had made him into a living EMF meter.

He could _feel _it.

"Dean—" He looked down when Sam swatted his lower leg and crouched to Sam's level, following when the kid nodded at something. "You ever seen growth like that?"

Dean felt his eyes narrow even more.

Right there, by the water, was a patch of what he _thought_ was moss. Only after looking closer he realized that it wasn't moss at all—it was something _else_.

"What the hell _is_ that?"

_A pool of black sludge?_

Sam shook his head. "I have no idea."

The strange substance covered nearly the entire riverbank, from the very edge of the water, up over the mud and into the grass. It was squishing up the soles of Dean's boots and the smell of it wasn't triggering any alarm bells in Dean's mind.

Despite the fact that the substance really and truly _was_ nasty as hell, he searched through his memories for some sight of it—had he seen it before? He knew for a fact that he hadn't dealt with it at any time on his own so he switched gears and thought back to all the hunts he'd either heard about or been on with his dad.

_Banshees._

_Werewolves._

_Wendigos._

_Berserkers._

_Shapeshifters._

_Revenants._

_Zombies._

_Malevolent spirits and ectoplasm._

Wait. What?

Dean's furrowed brow relaxed and he slowly shook his head, letting out a breath. "Ah, hell."

"What?"

"It's black, it's gooey, and it stinks."

Sam quirked an eyebrow. "Uh huh?"

"It's ectoplasm."

Sam's raised eyebrow fell back into place.

"I haven't seen this stuff since I was thirteen."

"Your first _hunt_ was when you were thirteen."

Dean looked over at him and nodded before glancing back down to the disgusting black gloop. "Davenport, Iowa. Wasn't my _first, _though. We dropped you off at Pastor Jim's and headed East; Dad made the drive in four hours."

He could feel himself stumble over the seemingly casual mention of their father and Sam, thank god, didn't call him on it. He merely stayed silent for a moment before saying, "I always knew that's where you got it from."

"Where I got _what_ from?"

"The lead in your foot."

Dean could hear the small smile in his brother's voice and in a moment where he found himself unexpectedly mourning their dad, it was like a balm to his soul.

"Bitch."

Sam didn't miss a beat before throwing back, "Jerk."

Clearing his throat, he continued. "Anyway, this housekeeper was torn apart at this out of the way motel and dad pretexted as a Statie to get the photos. Took me back there once all the other cops had ditched."

"And you found _this_ stuff?"

"Everywhere. The floors, the walls, the doorknobs. It was everywhere."

"So what was it?"

"Spirit." Dean stood from his crouch and took a look around again. "Real nasty spirit. I remember dad sayin' that you only get ectoplasm when the damn thing's been pissed for a while." Sam stood as well. "And not just _minorly_ pissed…we're talkin' crazed serial killer, _Happy Gilmour _ kinda pissed."

"Then I have more work to do."

Dean frowned, "Why?"

"Japanese water spirits are mischievous, Dean. They…lead travellers into water to drown them, they target specific people, y'know, just desserts. But they're not _Happy Gilmour."_

"What are they?"

"_Basil Fawlty."_

Dean's entire face puckered in confusion. "Who?"

"_Fawlty Towers?_ Ugh—" Sam waved a hand at him. "Nevermind."

Dean stared for a moment, "Whatever. Maybe we gotta call Bobby, you know? I mean, I feel stupid enough already, but…"

Sam shook his head. "I'll see what I can find first."

* * *

_They called Bobby by Thursday afternoon…_

_

* * *

_

"_You checked into the history of the town?"_

Sam nodded, even though Bobby couldn't see it. "Library here in Battle Lake sucks but we headed down to Fergus Falls and checked the archives there. Besides a two decade old suicide, all we found was our case—twenty four victims, various ages and nationalities. Only pattern was that they were all younger siblings that drowned in the river."

"_And you thought it was a Japanese water spirit?"_

"That was my first guess, yeah. I grabbed a couple books outta the trunk and did some reading on the way here Monday morning. Read up on Yurei, sprites, hell, even _Kappas_. The lore says they use lights and Japanese songs to lure in their victims—"

Dean, from across the room, cut in, "Yeah, and we're not exactly gettin' the whole _bouncing ball of light_ and _sweet lullaby_ vibe over here."

There was a loud sigh from the other end of the line and Sam sat down on the very end of his bed. _"I dunno there, Sam. Don't sound like any Japanese water phantom _I _ever heard of. Whatever you're dealin' with there sounds like it's playin' with its food."_

"Yeah, Bobby, I hear you."

"_And that whole little brother an' sister thing is botherin' me, too."_

Sam stole a small glance over at his brother, who was sitting at the small wooden table completely engrossed in whatever he was looking at on the laptop."Yeah, you're not the only one." He sighed. "I dunno, Bobby…I just feel like there's something I'm missing."

When the older man spoke again, there was definite compassion in his voice. _"How far back did you look?"_

"Only twenty-two years. I found out about a teen suicide; eighteen year old Clarisse Masters--"

"_Clarisse_…"

The Hannibal Lector impersonation drifted across the room and Sam let out a small chuckle.

"_How did she die?"_

"Swallowed a bottle of pills in her bedroom. Parents found her."

He could practically picture Bobby pursing his lips and shaking his head. _"I'll check a couple things out. There's gotta be somethin' goin' on out there."_

"Yeah, thanks, Bobby."

"_Just keep an eye on each other."_ He paused. _"Or better yet, tell Dean to keep an eye on you."_

"Trust me, that's one thing I don't have to tell him." Pulling the cell phone away from his ear Sam snapped it closed and tossed it over his shoulder, hearing it make a totally unsatisfying thump on the plushy comforter.

"What'd Bobby say?"

"He's gonna look into it."

Dean sighed and leaned back heavily in his chair, bringing it up to balance precariously on two legs. "So what're we gonna do to kill time?"

There was a pile of books thrown across Sam's bed and he reached back, grabbing one of the closest volumes. "More research."

"Boy—" Dean frowned. "You _really_ know how to have fun don't you, Grandma?"

* * *

**Now…**

The front legs of the chair thunked back down to the carpeted floor and Dean rubbed at his exhausted eyes.

"I'm all for gettin' your beauty sleep there, Sammy; but this is gettin' ridiculous."

_Four days. It's not ridiculous anymore, now it's downright scary._

He tried to ignore the creaking in his knees as he stood from his chair, raising his arms above his head and stretching the tired muscles in his shoulders. He could feel things popping, shifting and groaning and very nearly groaned out loud himself.

The glowing red digits of the alarm clock announced that it was just a few minutes after midnight and Dean took the opportunity to look over at the still sleeping Sam; the sicker the kid got, the more and more he looked like a six-foot-four version of his five-year-old self. He was curled on his side, bangs hanging in his face and mouth slightly open. All that was missing was his thumb in his mouth.

Moving quietly, Dean made his way to his brother's bed and once again pressed the backs of his fingers to Sam's forehead.

Best guess?

102 degrees.

He tried to ignore how violently Sam shivered when he laid the cold cloth across his forehead.

"Easy, Sammy," he soothed, pushing down the genuine panic that was stirring in his stomach. "Just…take it easy."

* * *

**Then… **

_Bobby called back Thursday night…_

_

* * *

_"_Michael Seger."_

Sam couldn't help but frown. "Michael Seger," he locked eyes pointedly with Dean. "Who's that?"

"_Murderer. Apparently was a resident of Battle Lake from 1950 to 1966."_

"Yeah? What's he famous for?"

"_Killin' kids. He had a younger brother, named Sam, as creepy as that is; kid drowned in that damn river when Seger was twenty-one years old. He's the one who found the body."_

Sam felt a relentless flow of bile start sliding up the back of his throat and he swallowed, turning his face away from his big brother's inquisitive eyes. "How old was the kid brother?"

"_Fifteen. That kid was Seger's pride and joy, 'ccordin' to the obit. Best friends. When Sam died, Mike lost it—started targeting kid siblings all over town."_

"The cops ever find him?"

He could almost _picture_ the older man shaking his head. _"Back then, investigations into serial killings took even longer then they do now. By the time the boys in blue figured it out, Seger'd offed himself—"_

"Let me guess. That damn river?"

"_Yep."_

Dean's voice drifted over suddenly. "What's he sayin'?"

Sam merely waved a hand at him.

"_I don't know 'bout this one, Sam. You fit the pattern, hell, _Dean_ fits the pattern—you're a kid brother, right age…Dean's a big brother, right age. You two can butt heads with the best of 'em but you're best friends; just like this son of a bitch and _his_ little brother were—"_

"Yeah, well…no hunt is perfect, Bobby."

"_Maybe not, but this is gettin' crazy."_ He sighed. "_You know that as soon as Dean hears about this, you're gonna be outta there, right?"_

Sam chose to ignore that. "The obit say where he's buried?"

There was a slight pause, then, "_Oak Grove Cemetery. Fergus Falls."_

"Pretty long way for Seger to slingshot."

"_Yeah, well, what can I say? Guy was a road man."_

The corner of Sam's mouth lifted. "Thanks, Bobby."

"_Don't be thankin' me. Just take care of each other, for chrissakes. You idgits watch your damn backs."_

"Yeah, you got it."

"_I'll keep lookin' through this stuff. I find anything else useful, I'll call you back."_

"Sounds good. Check in with you later."

Sam pulled the cell phone from his ear and snapped it closed.

"Well?"

Looking over his shoulder at Dean's slightly irritated scowl, Sam let out a breath.

"You better get comfortable, dude."

* * *

_The arguing continued Thursday night…_

_

* * *

_

"You're friggin' nuts, y'know that?"

"Dean—"

"You got a death wish."

"I _do_ not."

"Then why the _hell_ aren't we leaving?" He glared across the room and felt a small satisfaction when Sam started fidgeting. "You're sayin' it's not about proving something, but _look_ at you! Chompin' at the damn bit to face off against the ghost of a crazed kid killer."

He sighed. "I just wanna help here, Dean, that's all—"

"I got news for you, Sammy; I wanna help these people, too. But keepin' you safe is higher on my list of priorities then helpin' strangers."

"But why?"

"Why _what_?"

"_Why_ is it higher on your list of priorities?"

There was silence.

Strained, ugly, heated silence.

The room was suddenly too small, the chair suddenly too uncomfortable, the exit suddenly _way_ too far away. Sam could feel Dean's fury practically wafting through their atmosphere and it was potent.

And then…

"You actually askin' me that?"

Sam raised a placating hand, recognizing the ticking time bomb his older brother had suddenly morphed into. "I thought that our job was helping people?"

And that, apparently, was the wrong thing to say.

Dean stared at him for a moment with a narrowed gaze—fury, frustration, irritation and disbelief all flashed in his hazels.

Fury won out.

He stood from his seat at the table with such a force that his chair toppled over behind him. "Fine," his voice was quiet, hard. "You wanna stay here, stay. I'm not hangin' around to watch you sacrifice yourself. Not for this."

He grabbed his duffel bag and was out the door before Sam could so much as stammer his name.

Throughout the Winchester history book, Dean was _never_ the one who left. He was always the one who sat and stewed; _Sam_ always got up and stormed out, walking for hours to _clear his head_ and only returning to his big brother once he'd calmed down and cooled off.

Dean was always there.

Dean never left him.

_Dean's gone._

_Dean's leaving._

_No no no no no!_

Sam shot off the end of his bed and practically ran out the door, his heart pounding in his chest to the point of making him feel faint.

But the panic wasn't necessary. Dean hadn't gone far.

The Impala sat silently where they'd left it earlier that day, only a short distance from their motel room door. And there in the driver's seat, looking stony faced and furious…was Dean.

Sam came to a quick stop, his sneakers sliding in the loose gravel of the parking lot. His heart slowed even though his breathing was still quick and irregular; they very sight of his brother calming his nerves and easing the pains in his chest.

_Dean's here._

_He didn't leave._

_Dean._

With his hands sheepishly shoved in the pockets of his jeans, he approached the car as he would a rabid dog. Well…it was more the _occupant_ of the car that seemed to be silently demanding the wide berth. Sam was more than happy to oblige, knowing from experience that he most likely hadn't yet seen the main eruption of his big brother's temper. He was still unstable. Still dangerous.

Not dangerous to Sam.

Just…dangerous to everything else.

He swallowed hard and turned around, leaning himself back against the Impala's rear door. From where he was standing he could hear Dean's heavy and furious breathing through the open car window—like a bull pawing at the ground, getting ready to charge at the red flag.

A red flag in the shape of Sammy Winchester.

Sam swallowed nervously and tried to ignore the slight shake in his voice. "I'm not sacrificing myself, Dean." He said quietly. "I don't…have a _death wish. _I just…I know what it's like to lose a brother."

Dean remained silent, his eyes staring straight ahead, his body scarily still.

"In the hospital, after the accident…I got the company lines; _you have to have realistic expectations…he might not wake up._" Sam shrugged, biting his lower lip for a second. "You were lying there with a tube down your throat and I remember sitting there watching you breathe and thinking to myself, '_Dean _never_ breathes like that. It's too fast.'_

"And I kept thinking about things—me being at school, all the fights we had, all the horrible things I said—and the idea of not being able to talk to you about it all. It scared the hell outta me."

Sam paused, swallowing thickly.

"This son of a bitch may be going after the kid siblings but that doesn't matter because there are people out there that are still gonna go through what I _almost_ went through. And I can't let that happen. I won't."

"And that's worth killin' yourself?"

Dean's voice was so quiet, so unexpected, that Sam nearly started at the sound of it. He steadied himself quickly and swallowed again, shaking his head. "I'm gonna be fine, Dean."

He remembered a time when they were kids. A time when Dean could solve _any_ problem, day or night, rain or shine, tears or no tears. A time where all Dean had to do was whisper the words _'everything's gonna be ok'_, and magically, that was so. His big brother was the superhero of his childhood, and now that they were adults, Dean was _still_ a superhero; capable of anything, anytime, anywhere.

Capable of stopping bullets and jumping over tall buildings in a single bound.

Sam smiled. "You're Superman, remember?"

The silence that hung in the air was still thick, still heavy, and Sam was almost disappointed when Dean remained as silent as ever, his eyes staring out through the windshield as if the answers to all his problems were out there somewhere among the long grass and cracked asphalt of the roadway. _Something_ beyond that pane of glass was anchoring him, keeping him steady, and Sam knew when the time came to leave things alone.

He gently thumped on the room of the car before turning and schlepping back towards the motel, letting out a long and tired breath the moment he crossed the threshold of their room.

Now he would wait.

And try not to keep staring compulsively through the cracked old blinds to where his brother, still as a statue, sat stewing behind the Impala's steering wheel.

* * *

By the time Dean had made it out to his car, he was good and pissed.

So pissed in fact that his hands were clenching and his teeth were coming together with an actual audible _snap_.

_Stupid, self-sacrificial little punk._

Talkin' about Dad's legacy and what he would've wanted. Dean knew more than Sam could ever hope to when it came to what their dad wanted—_if you can't save him, you'll have to kill him_. With parting words like that, neither one of them should give a _damn_ what the old man wanted.

But Sam…

Sam didn't even know about those parting words and it was like the friggin' kid was desperate for redemption; desperate for the chance to make up for everything he was supposed to be. _Spiritual rescue._ But he didn't _need_ spiritual rescue. Despite everything that had been handed to him over those twenty-three years, somehow, someway, Sam had retained a level of innocence and decency that was astonishing. There he was, the best person Dean knew…and he was the one who was going to suffer more than anyone else.

_Life fuckin' sucks._

Everything they'd been through in their lives, not to mention everything they were _going_ to go through and they still had to deal with crap like this?

Dean just wanted to leave. He wanted to pack their bags, chuck them in the back of the Impala—hell, chuck _Sam _in the back of the Impala—and just hit the road, putting Battle Lake in his rear-view once and for all.

And once he left, hell would have to freeze over twice before he ever went back.

If the situation were reversed, Sam would be driving him insane.

_Dean, we'll call someone else._

_Dean, come on dude, we'll find another case._

_Dean, it's not the end of the world. Hey! I heard there was a Chupacabra a couple states over?_

Yeah. The girl would natter and whine until he got his way—he'd be worried and concerned, looking at him with either the bitch face or the my-dog-is-dead face, and the game would be over before Dean could even blink. But no, when it was _Dean_ that wanted to leave…when it was _Dean_ who was the concerned one..?

Well that was just too damn bad.

He hadn't been able to stand up to their father in childhood and he wasn't able to stand up to Sam in adulthood.

How weak he really and truly was scared him sometimes.

And his weaknesses when it came to his kid brother were only magnified ten thousand times when Sam had come barrelling out of the motel after him, his face set in a panic and his eyes wide. He'd nearly fallen on his butt before shoving his hands sheepishly into his pockets and tottering on over to lean against the side of the car.

_I know what it's like to lose a brother._

_Dean _never _ breathes like that. It's too fast._

_Me being away at school, and the fights we had, all the horrible things I said._

_It scared the hell outta me._

_You're Superman, remember?_

Ah hell.

He may've been Superman when they were kids; he beat away the bullies, healed scraped knees, untied gigantic knots from little Sammy's sneakers. Life back then made it easy to be a superhero. But now, with all the additional problems that came with being all grown up? Dean didn't feel like Superman.

He didn't feel like anything.

Unless you included _world's biggest sap._

Sucking in a deep breath, he threw open the driver's door and climbed out, his eyes glued to the still open doorway of their room. Sam had left it open _hoping_ that he'd go back in…

_Damn kid…_

He should know by now that even if Dean was pissed beyond reason?

He always went back.

* * *

_They drove to Fergus Falls even later Thursday night…_

_

* * *

_

"Where the hell is this bastard?"

"I dunno," Sam sighed, pointing down a row of gravestones. "I'll go left, you go right…holler when you find him."

All Dean did was nod, adjusting the strap of his duffel on his shoulder so that it didn't hurt. Sam turned to walk away but Dean reached forward and grabbed his arm from behind, and Sam swing to a curious halt. "You remember what I said, Sam," he said, voice quiet. "We do this _my_ way.; salt and burn, in the car, back to Battle Lake. We're hittin' the road first thing in the morning."

"Yeah, _after_ we check out the river."

Dean felt his own face deaden. "Sam."

"Dean, all I want to do is check it out. For five minutes, man."

_Yeah, ok, whatever._

"Let's just do this and get the hell outta here."

The older of the two turned and headed to the right, pulling his flashlight up and using it to scan the engraved names on the tombstones as he passed.

_Willman, O'Brian, Banks, Stiles, Perry…_

"Come on now, Mikey; we don't have all friggin' day."

The cemetery was quiet except for the light sound of blowing leaves and somewhere in his consciousness Dean recognized that the air was cold. He could feel the force of the breeze against the material of his jacket and briefly wondered if Sam was wearing warm enough clothing.

"Dean!"

He heard the holler and recognized immediately that it wasn't panicked or hurried, that it had an undercurrent of _'yahtzee'_.

He found Sam quickly and glanced down at the tombstone. _"Michael Seger_," he shook his head, dropping his duffel. "Dude's a freak."

Sam crouched down in front of the stone and aimed his flashlight at the engraving. _"Loving brother."_

"Yeah, right. Started offin' _kids_, Sam."

"Lost his brother."

_I know what it's like to lose a brother._

With the shovel in his hands he bared down and pushed the blade into the earth, grunting slightly. "Still here, Sammy."

And that was all he said, because what he'd said was the truth…and it's what mattered most.

* * *

_They left the motel early Friday morning…_

_

* * *

_

Sam settled into the passenger seat of the Impala and let out a breath, resting his head back against the headrest. He couldn't help but smile as he listened to Dean rooting around in the back seat, grumbling to himself and fluidly swearing.

He'd also heard his tough as nails big brother bang his head once or twice, but he'd had enough sense to keep his mouth shut and his snorts to himself.

"Dude?"

Another grumble and a snapped, "What?"

"What are you doing back there?"

"All the friggin' work, apparently."

Sam turned in his seat and watched as Dean rummaged through a duffel bag. The sun was shining brightly in through the passenger window and Sam felt a sneeze brewing in his sinuses—he sniffed, just in case.

"So after we hit the river, where are we going?"

Dean shrugged, withdrawing from the backseat and closing the door before quickly sliding in behind the wheel. "I dunno. Maybe head to Bobby's." He motioned miserably to the dash of the Impala, which had been making a rather distressing rattling noise since they'd left the cemetery late the night before.

Dean didn't have to say it out loud but Sam knew that he wanted to go to the salvage yard and spend a couple good solid hours under the hood.

She _was_ his _baby_, after all.

"What do you think is makin' that noise?"

"Hell if I know. Just rebuilt her, too."

"I'm sure it's nothing."

He sighed, turning the key gently in the ignition and visibly cringing when the rattle accompanied the familiar growl of the engine turning over.

"Take it easy, sweetheart."

Sam couldn't help it. He snorted. "Dude. Seriously?"

Dean looked over and immediately frowned. "Hey, you wanna walk?"

"If you're gonna be getting all _touchy-feely_ with _her_…then yeah, I might prefer to."

All Dean did was shake his head, giving a slight caress to the steering wheel before starting to cruise across the motel parking lot. "Friggin' smart ass—don't know where the hell you get it from."

All Sam could do was smile.

"Yeah, me either."

"At least we know how to get there this time."

Sam let out a breath and watched as it appeared in a white cloud.

It wasn't that he had a problem with early mornings. He preferred them, actually. It gave him time to get up, get his act together and get everything done that he needed to. Hell, it was only at ungodly hours of the morning that he had first dibs on the hot water—Dean seemed to claim it as a birthright every _other_ time of the day.

That particular morning, however, it was unseasonably cold and damp and Sam had found himself silently wishing more than once that he was still back in his warm bed.

But _meh._

As Dean had eloquently put it that very morning, _they had crap to do._

"Yeah. Shouldn't take too long."

"What the hell is it we're gonna do, anyway?" Dean stepped gingerly over a large tree-root. Sam followed behind him. "I mean, we torched Seger. The river's clean."

"I dunno, man. I just have a feeling."

"What kind of feeling?"

"I don't know."

Dean snorted, glancing over his shoulder. "Well come on now, Sammy—you can be vaguer than _that_."

"I can't explain it, Dean. Something just doesn't feel right."

"Yeah, well," he pulled out the EMF meter from his jacket pocket, "Not a twitch."

They continued onward, Dean leading the way with the EMF meter held loosely in his hand and Sam following a few steps behind, scanning the trees and over-hanging branches with keen eyes as they went.

The two brothers emerged from the trees and came to an abrupt stop.

The river flowed and babbled merrily and a light breeze was blowing through the grass. The sun was shining and birds were chirping…everything appeared to be as it should be.

But there was _something_.

The air felt like it was electrically charged—alive and humming with energy. "Dean?"

"Yeah."

_I feel it too._

"He's still hangin' around."

The words hadn't been out of Sam's mouth longer than a second and a half when the EMF meter started screeching, lighting up and flashing in Dean's hand.

The brothers exchanged a look.

That's when the hit came.

There was a sudden pressure on Sam's chest and before he even realized what was happening, he felt himself flying forwards as if someone had charged at him and pushed him from behind. He could just hear Dean scream his name before he made painful contact with the forest floor, only inches away from the water's edge.

His ears were ringing and his chest was so tight that it was nearly impossible to draw breath. Something was on him, _pushing him_ down into the dirt and he struggled to get leverage, struggled to get enough air in his lungs to call for his brother.

He opened his mouth to say the word but his throat felt like it was closing. No words came out of his mouth but in his mind, he was screaming.

The force that was on him amplified and he could feel himself sliding across the dirt, his fingernails digging into the soil in an effort to anchor himself, to keep himself from being pushed, or _dragged_, any closer to the water.

The smell of ozone overpowered his senses and before he knew it, he slid head first into the frothy water of the now swirling river. Water immediately filled his mouth, throat…all the way down into his lungs, and he felt himself choking, panicking, as he fought to return to the surface.

The water was cold and as it hit his skin it felt like a thousand knives were stabbing into his flesh; slicing and gouging at him. There was pressure all around him, holding him down in the darkness.

Sam forced his eyes open and stared in the direction he thought was up, the morning sun shining down on the glassy surface of the water.

A hand with a familiar silver ring plunged into the water only a foot or so from him and Sam fought to reach out to it, managing to grasp it as tightly as he could. The hand returned the fierce hold and started to strain to pull him upwards, fighting against whatever force that was keeping Sam trapped below the surface.

Opening his eyes again, Sam could _just_ see his big brother's panic-stricken face and terrified eyes staring down at him. He could see Dean's mouth moving and wished more than anything that he could hear his voice.

He could feel the strength in Dean's hold intensify and he gagged and gasped for air when his head suddenly and barely broke the surface.

"Sammy!"

"D-Dea—" He gagged again, water lapping at the corner of his mouth. "S-Seger."

In a voice wild with fear and panic, Dean snarled, "You hang on, you hear me?"

"Dean—"

"Don't let go of my hand!"

There was a tightness in Sam's chest again, as though Seger's ghostly hands were traveling up his torso and hooking around his shoulders. He didn't have enough time to draw a full breath before he was under the water again, holding onto his big brother's hands with every ounce of strength he had left.

His hold was desperate, afraid.

As he continued to struggle under the water, there was a sound. A clear voice, a whisper, as if someone was standing next to him and whispering in his ear.

_I'm here, little Sammy._

Sam knew immediately who it was, speaking to him in the dark depths. That pressure on his chest…the force holding him down.

_Don't be scared._

His lungs were burning, desperate for him to break the surface and draw another breath. He forced his eyes open and focused completely on Dean's distorted face—his brother's furious hazel eyes, his paler than usual skin, his lips still moving as he spoke to a younger brother that couldn't hear a word he was saying, even though he wished he could.

_He's going to lose you, Sammy._

Dean.

_He's going to lose his Sammy…just like I lost mine._

No no no no no!

He couldn't stand it.

The ringing in his ears was too loud and his movements started getting sluggish. He could feel his vision getting darker under the water, his very mind seeming to slow down against his will. His arms and legs jerked as he died but he could still _feel_—Dean's fingers tightening around his wrists as if begging him to stay with it, not to give up. But Sam's _body_ was giving up.

He was tired. So friggin' tired.

As his eyes slipped close and awareness left him, he was sure he heard Dean screaming.

* * *

SAM!

The very second that Sam's hands went limp, the churning river water calmed and left nothing behind but the ache in Dean's fingers and the panic that had exploded in his chest.

Somewhere deep down inside Dean pooled his remaining strength—what little of it he had left—and pulled Sam from the water, laying him flat on his back while at the same time moving his soaking wet bangs away from his face.

He didn't hesitate in lowering his head to Sam's chest and listening, straining to hear something…_anything_. A faint heartbeat, a raspy or shallow breath. Some kind of sign, some kind of life.

There was nothing.

No heartbeat. No breath sounds.

Nothing.

Intertwining his fingers, he placed them in the center of Sam's chest and started compressions, trying desperately to keep count in his head.

"Come on, Sam!"

Once he reached thirty-two, he bent down and blew a hard breath into Sam's mouth, watching out of the corner of his eye for his chest to rise.

_Nothing._

_Blocked airway._

"Shit, come _on,_ Sam."

_Thirty-two. A breath._

_Thirty-two. A breath._

No no no no no!

"Sam!"

_Thirty-two. A breath._

And right then, the kid came alive; a relentless stream of water exploding from his mouth followed by the most rough and ragged coughing the older man had ever heard.

Moisture pooled in his eyes and the wave of relief that crashed over him almost made him lightheaded. He grasped the wet collar of Sam's jacket and pulled him against his chest, placing a hand on the back of his head to help keep him steady.

"It's ok, Sammy."

He could feel Sam's shallow breathing against his t-shirt, the coolness of the river water soaking through…and Dean let out a shaky breath. It wasn't physically possible to pull Sam any closer to him but he certainly tried.

"It's ok."

* * *

"_How's he doin'?"_

Dean leaned against the wall of their motel room, positioning himself so that Sam's bed was directly in his line of sight. "No real change," he said quietly. "Hasn't woken up yet."

"_You gonna get him checked out?"_

"Don't know if it'll make a difference. They'll just keep him and keep an eye on him. I can do that myself."

Bobby sighed and Dean could picture him scratching his forehead under the brim of his grease-stained ball cap. _"Any fever?"_

"Hundred and two, last time I checked."

"_You two are gonna be the death of me, I'm tellin' ya."_

"I got news for you, Bobby, I'm in the same boat as you."

"_If the fever gets any higher—"_

"Get him to the hospital." Dean let out a breath. "Yeah, I know."

"_And keep an eye on yourself, too. Don't want you endin' up in the bed next to him."_

He nodded to himself. "Soon as he's well enough to travel, we'll be headin' your way. Take a couple days."

"_Call me when you're headin' out, I'll be ready._" A short pause. _"And call if you need anything. I'll come out there."_

"Thanks Bobby."

"_You been thinkin' about what the hell went on out there?"_

"Every damn minute. We torched the son of a bitch, Bobby, why's he still hanging around?"

Bobby sighed. _"You got me there, kid. Don't make a lick-a-sense. I'll check the obits again, see if I can dig anything up. You do what you can for Sam." _

"Thanks, Bobby."

Dean snapped the cell phone closed and slid it back into his hip pocket, his eyes never once leaving Sam's still and blanket-covered form. The kid hadn't moved a muscle in nearly an hour and a half and Dean was nearly _desperate_ for something, anything—Sammy could twitch a finger or wrinkle his nose and it would _easily_ make Dean's entire week.

He pushed himself from the wall and made his way to his own bed, sitting himself down gingerly and resting his arms on his legs. He knew he needed to sleep, only an hour or two, to keep himself going. If he didn't, he'd be sick as a pig before he knew what the hell hit him.

And so he laid himself down on his bed, turning onto his left side so that he could watch Sam. His heart hurt slightly when he realized that Sam was facing him as well; blankets up to his neck, incredibly dark circles under his eyes and a slight flush to his skin.

_Fever? Down to 101._

Dean knew his baby brother far too well.

He found his mind wandering, eyes still locked on Sam's face.

He wasn't even aware of it when his eyes drifted shut.

* * *

Sam rediscovered his body in pieces.

There was a relentless ache pooling in his shoulders and his neck was rigid; familiar hands came out of nowhere and worked out the cramps or moved him into a position that didn't hurt…his skin erupted in goose bumps and a thick blanket was tenderly thrown over him…a cold cloth was placed on his forehead, cooling him off when he got too warm.

And Dean's voice was there through it all, fragmented and distorted, but there nonetheless.

Full consciousness returned to him slowly.

"Sammy?" A warm hand came down gently on his chest.

_Dean._

Sam tried to take a deep breath and a blast of fire took over his entire throat. His throat was bleeding, peeling, _chaffing_…it _had_ to be. He started to cough.

"Easy, Sammy," The hand pressed into his chest soothingly and all of a sudden there was a glass at his lips. The cool water touched his dry and cracked lips and Sam nearly groaned in euphoria; he tried to take in as much as he could. "Whoa, whoa—" The water disappeared. _No_. "Take it easy."

In a truly pained effort, Sam blinked his eyes open slowly. His vision was hazy but he could still make out the familiar outline and planes of Dean's face; the corner of his mouth lifted instinctively. "Dean…"

The hand moved to his shoulder and squeezed gently. "Yeah, man," Dean's voice was soft, "How're you feeling?"

Sam tried to swallow and winced again at the pain in his throat. "M'fine," he rasped out, internally frowning when his words came out slurred.

"Yeah, sure." Dean didn't sound the least bit convinced. "Want some more water?"

Sam licked his lips and forced his eyes open again. "Where...are we?"

"Battle Lake."

Sam must've frowned because all of a sudden Dean said, "What do you expect, Sammy? You've been out of it for four days."

"The…the river. I couldn't—" He stalled, starting to feel frustrated with himself. He couldn't swallow, could barely talk, couldn't even think straight.

_I was dead._

_I died._

"Dean, what…happened?"

The hand on his shoulder seemed to tighten compulsively for a moment, but Dean must've realized because it suddenly loosened and went back to merely _being there_. "You need to get some rest." His voice was gentle but even in his stupor, Sam could sense the evasiveness. His brother was trying to distract him, change the subject—and it was working, because that voice along with Dean's hand going back to smoothing his chest, he was having trouble keeping his eyes open.

"Don't…do that."

Dean sighed, his hand leaving Sam's chest—Sam immediately missed the feeling of it. "Don't do what, Sam?"

"Avoid me."

The hand was back, but that time it rested on Sam's upper arm. "I'm not _avoiding_ you, Sammy," he said quietly. "Rest, ok? We'll talk later."

"Promise?"

Maybe it was the fact that he was exhausted. Or maybe it was the fact that, no matter what happened, he didn't want Dean to go away. But he spoke before he could stop himself; his voice sounding much younger than his twenty-three years.

"Yeah, Sammy. I promise."

And for right then? That had to be enough.

Sam lost the battle and let his eyes close, all the while feeling Dean's unwavering presence right beside him.

* * *

"A _lock_ of _hair_?"

Dean nodded, letting out a breath and seating himself on the very edge of his own bed, leaning forward slightly. "Yeah. When Sammy Seger died, big brother put a lock of his own hair in the casket with him. That way they'd always '_be together'_" He made little quotations with his fingers.

Sam cringed. "Dude."

"Yeah, I know."

"So you went out there on your own?"

Dean couldn't help but quirk an eyebrow, "It's not like it was mission impossible, Sam. Dug up the kid, burned the hair, _re_-planted the _un_-planted."

"But you went _on your own._"

The truth was, leaving the kid alone for that one hour had been as close to a physical pain as Dean had ever experienced. Sam had been out of it for going on four days, but it wasn't until the morning of the third day that Dean had finally forced himself to leave, his need for revenge too much for him to stand. The elderly owner of the hotel had taken a liking to Sam the first time they'd checked in and when Dean had returned mere _hours_ after they'd left, a gravely injured Sam in the car, she'd let them have their room back free of charge. When he'd finally been able to make the decision to return to the cemetery with Sam as ill as he was, he'd gone to her and told her that his brother wasn't feeling well and that he _needed_ go out for a short time. _'Would you mind checking on him once, maybe in a half hour or so?"_ he asked, "_I'll be back by two."_

It wasn't often that Dean trusted other people with his brother.; in fact when it came to Sam, he trusted _no one_ but himself. But that one time his temper and his need for retribution had won out over everything else…and as odd as it was for him to trust near strangers, something about Margaret had reassured him. He considered himself an excellent judge of character, he had to be, and she'd won his heart the moment he'd met her.

He felt like he could trust her with his most prized possession.

That didn't stop him from speeding back, however.

He'd returned to the motel to find a note sitting on the small dining table in their room. _"Peeked in at 1:30, he was safe and sound."_

Dean held up a placating hand. "I'm not sayin' this to be an asshole," he started quietly, "but I've been on plenty of hunts by myself."

"No, I know that. But now you don't have to."

And Dean had to admit, he very nearly turned into an outright pussy right then and there.

He exhaled and ran a hand through his already tousled hair. "I know." A smile. "Last time, I promise."

"You promise?"

"Yeah," He leaned back, resting his weight on his left elbow. "That is, if you don't plan on checkin' out anytime soon."

Sam smiled back, tired dimples and all. "No, not any time soon."

* * *

The Impala blasted through the front entrance of Singer Salvage, leaving a dust cloud in her wake. The horn sounded loudly as a means of greeting and Bobby immediately appeared on the front porch, raising a hand in welcome as Dean brought the car to a slow and gentle stop.

Sam sat bundled up in the passenger seat, wearing sweatpants and a truly enormous hooded sweater.

Some people had comfort food. Sammy had comfort clothing.

The dust settled and Dean cut the engine, watching as the old hunter waved again, calling to them, "You boys gettin' outta the car, or what?"

The two brothers exchanged a smile and opened their respective doors, sliding out of the car.

Sam stood cautiously, carefully, unfolding his tall frame from the passenger seat. Dean watched protectively over the roof of the car, his hand freezing on the back door's handle. He opened his mouth to ask but Sam knew him far too well. "I'm alright, Dean." He cleared his throat. "Just stiff."

"You sure?"

Sam nodded. "Go on ahead."

_Going on ahead_ wasn't really high on Dean's list of priorities but he didn't want to hover. Sam had belly-ached and griped over the years about Dean's innate mother-bear protectiveness, but Jesus, he couldn't help it. Among all the things that had been bred into a tough-as-nails older brother, _protectiveness_ came with the territory; Sam was all the eldest Winchester had left and he was going to defend and keep him for as long as he could, come hell or high water.

But after studying the kid's face, Dean made a quick and out of character decision.

He grabbed his duffel bag through the Impala's open rear window and took off towards the front porch, taking the stairs two at a time before pulling Bobby into a rough one armed hug. "Hey Bobby."

"Hey kid." Bobby returned the embrace before the pair mutually pulled apart; his hand lightly and good-naturedly made contact with Dean's cheek. "You ok?"

"Tired, hungry and I got about a _week's_ worth of numb-ass."

The old man laughed and shook his head. "Get your asses inside, I got food on the stove and beer in the fridge."

"Oh—" Dean returned the gesture; a gentle tap to Bobby's unshaven cheek, "Man after my own heart."

He looked for Sam over his shoulder instinctively and froze on the spot, looking back down towards the car. "Sammy?"

The kid hadn't moved from his spot, leaning back against the Impala's passenger door as if the very act of standing up had completely drained his tank. He took a step towards the stairs but Bobby flung an arm out to stop him. "You go inside, I'll help Sam."

Dean hesitated for the slightest second before tightly nodding his head, his brow furrowing as he watched Bobby slowly descend the stairs and approach Sam.

The two exchanged a hug that looked like it should be taking place between father and son. Bobby pulled away first and set a hand on Sammy's shoulder, leaning close and speaking to him quietly.

Dean couldn't help but stand there and watch, feeling a wave of relief crash over him that could only come from being at Bobby's. Aside from the car, that rickety old house was the closest thing to a home they had. They'd laughed in that house, schemed, drank beer and slept dreamless sleeps. It was the one safe haven that the Winchesters could keep on returning to—it was always there, whenever they needed it.

Dean knew that he and Sam needed to talk; their father, what had happened in Battle Lake, and all the crap that had gone down in between. They needed to debrief…and above all, they needed to allow themselves to comfort each other. _Dean_ had to allow them to comfort each other.

The feeling he'd had as he'd felt the life leave Sam's fingers, Sam's hands…it was like his insides were dying, shrivelling up into nothing. He'd watched, completely helpless as Sam's eyes had closed, the last of his air bubbling up to the surface of the water. He remembered how the second Sam had fallen still the churning river water had calmed, barely a ripple.

And he remembered the bloodless face of his brother when he'd finally hauled him out of the water.

It wasn't the first time in his life that he'd had to pump his brother's chest or blow air into a set of lungs that refused to take in air on their own. But that moment down by the river…of all of those times, that one moment had lasted the longest. It had felt like an eternity, a lifetime, silently screaming to anyone that was listening to just do this _one thing_.

Dean never prayed. But down at the river, he had.

_Please. Let him breathe just one last time._

And then, as if his prayers had been answered, Sam came to life—expelling a relentless stream of river water before huddling in on himself, not even being soothed by the sound of Dean's voice when he'd finally worked up the strength to speak.

Sam laughed as Bobby spoke to him and then coughed slightly, raising a hand and rubbing his chest unconsciously through the material of his sweater.

Yeah, they'd take some time off.

Dean would fuss and act all _mother bear_ until Sam was standing fully on his own two feet again. He'd drive the kid insane, which in turn, would drive Bobby insane, but that was alright.

They were home.

And all pretenses disappeared when they were home.

_END_


	11. O

**Author's Note:** Hey everyone! First off, thanks to everyone who reviewed "Nemesis". I really appreciate all the kind words, you guys are the best! Here's the next one. It's a shorter entry, so it won't take two decades to get through it lol Kind of a random idea, but a friend of mine told me I should post it. So here it is :) I hope that you like it!

I kinda played around with dates in terms of Sam and Jessica--I have absolutely no idea how or when they met, so I got creative.

**Takes place sometime after Scarecrow.**

**

* * *

****O is for Opportune**

Opportune: suitable for a purpose, or occurring at just the right time

* * *

He knew that Sam was the emo bitch of the Winchester duo but this was getting stupid.

A week.

An _entire_ week of bitch faces, angst, depressed sighs and one word answers.

It wasn't like Dean needed conversation to keep him entertained. After all, he was perfectly capable of surviving in silence, especially with Sam; they'd never needed to _speak_ in order to have dialogue. It was something they'd worked on and perfected when they were kids, quiet talks in the back of the Impala or in darkened motel rooms when their dad was sound asleep in the next bed.

And it wasn't like Dean was _lonely_ or anything. He could go out and find companionship if he wanted it; they'd passed countless bars on that one highway and there was bound to be…_willing_ members of the fairer sex hanging around.

But _meh_. He wasn't in the mood.

And that was saying something because he was _always_ in the mood.

They'd finished their most recent case a couple of days before; a werewolf that was stalking a small town in Eastern Alabama—Auburn, to be exact. Right down deep in the buckle of the Bible Belt. Sam had been acting weird throughout the entire job, barely speaking unless he was spoken to and only showing emotion when Dean had been unceremoniously thrown into a tree. He appreciated the brotherly concern, as always, but he was on the verge of losing it. Comfortable silence didn't bother him, but this _emo_ silence? It was starting to get on his damn nerves.

_Well, shit._

He really _was_ kinda lonely.

"Hey, I was thinkin'," he started casually, leaning back in the driver's seat. "Why don't we take a couple days? Have some fun or something."

Sam stayed silent for a moment but then spoke in a quiet voice. "Fun?"

"Yeah. Cross a couple state lines and find some good trouble to get into."

"Like you need any _help_ finding trouble."

Dean couldn't tell if the words were said good-naturedly or not but he responded as if they had been. "Come on now, Sammy," he smiled, "you know I always need my wingman."

He watched his baby brother for a few seconds, waiting for some kind of response. He got nothing. Sam just stared ahead, eyes fixed and face completely stoic. Dean returned his gaze to the blacktop and let out a breath, tightening his fingers around the steering wheel.

_Ok. That's it._

"You gonna tell me what's going on with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do I _mean_?" Dean glanced over quickly, his eyebrows raised. "I mean this new…quiet, mopey, _my dog is dead _thing you got goin' on. You've been like this since before Auburn, dude, what's up?"

Catching his lower lip between his teeth for a second, Sam slowly shook his head. His meaning was clear. _I'm not talking._

"Sam?"

Sam muttered something that Dean wouldn't have been able to hear even if he was sitting in the kid's lap. He furrowed his brow. "What?"

"I said, it doesn't matter."

"How doesn't it matter?"

"Dean," his voice was low, warning. "Just leave it alone."

And as easily as that, the wall slammed down; a tall, brick, razor-wired son of a bitch that Dean wouldn't be able to climb or knock down. He'd just have to wait until his little brother peered over the top with wide and needy eyes, permitting him entry into all his emotional turbulence. That was a normal routine…Sam's attitude, however, was not.

There were only so many things that could make his usually sensitive and gentle brother so bristly.

_Jessica or mom._

He wracked his brain as he tried to remember what the hell the date was. He knew for a fact that it wasn't November 2nd…because if it had been, he would've been in the same boat as his brother.

He would've been _worse_ than his brother.

On the anniversary of their mother, he was _always_ the worst.

That only left Jessica.

Since it wasn't November 2nd, it wasn't the _anniversary_ of the young girl's death that little Sammy was thinking of—even though he mourned her _death_ every minute of every day. No, this was something else. Another day, another memory.

Another landmine for a hapless older brother.

Dean had once bought chocolate chip cookies from a local bakery in an attempt to cheer Sam up. Really bad idea. Chocolate chip had been Jessica's favourite.

Dean had once rented _Indiana Jones_ knowing that Sam liked it and thinking that they could watch it together, like they had when they were kids. _Another_ bad idea. That movie had been Jessica's favourite.

Dean had once found a radio station that seemed to play _Staind_ nearly twenty-four hours a day, Sam's favourite band. And yet _another_ bad idea. It had been Jessica who had introduced him to their emo music in the first place.

_Nothin' like a mouth to stick a big ol' foot in, huh?_

In the countless months since he and Sam had taken to the road again, he'd been stumbling across things constantly and by accident. Things that seemed to do nothing but break his little brother's heart all over again, which in turn, made Dean's chest hurt. _Poor kid._

As if he hadn't had _enough _of a reason to kill the yellow-eyed bastard.

"This is about Jessica, isn't it?"

Sam said nothing.

Dean sighed quietly. "Look, man…I know what you're goin' through—"

"No, you don't." Sam looked over, his usually benign eyes flashing. "You have _no_ idea."

_How old were you when Mom died? Four? Jess died six months ago. How the hell would you know how I feel?_

"That's right, because when we lost mom, I was only four…right? What could I possibly remember?"

A truly ugly silence fell in the car and Dean had to fight to keep from completely losing his temper. He knew that he had a short fuse, especially when it came to their mother and the memories of losing her. Because regardless of what Sam thought, he remembered it all—the heat, the smell, the distant sound of her screaming. The memories were as clear at twenty-six years old as they had been at four years old. Time didn't make a difference, to hell with what Sam said or assumed.

Sam seemed to realize the ramifications of what he'd said because he sighed, hesitantly looking over. "I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't…I mean, I don't—" he breathed a bitter laugh. "I shouldn't have said that."

Dean gave a slow nod as if to say_ 'apology accepted_'.

He didn't need to invite Sam to talk again; the kid knew that there was a pair of ears ready and willing if he wanted them or needed them.

After a few minutes where the only sound was the Impala's rumbling engine and the tires cutting through the rain water covering the asphalt, Sam cleared his throat.

_Here it comes._

"Today is February 20th."

"Yeah."

"This is the day I first met Jess."

_Ah, Sammy._

Swallowing somewhat hard, Dean asked softly, "You wanna talk about it?"

Sam gave a small smile. "You sure you wanna know?"

Dean's aversion to chick flick moments was no secret—hell, he'd rather chew on kitty litter—but when it came to Sam, he was always willing. He may not _like_ it, but he'd do it. Anything for the Sasquatch.

"If you wanna tell me."

When Sam opened his mouth to tell the story, Dean was happy—happy that his brother was sharing something with him, trusting him with it. It was a glimpse into Sam's other life. The life he'd always wanted. Hell, the life he'd _deserved_.

And something inside began to hurt…

_The afternoon sunshine was coming through the high windows with a vengeance and Sam was squinting, straining to read the small print in his textbook. _Introduction To Criminal Law_. His very freedom, bound and on paper._

_His second semester at Stanford University had begun._

_He'd been in California for only a few short months, trying to get used to his new found independence. It was bizarre, really, to have so much free time. He could go to the library whenever he wanted, buy his own groceries—fruits, vegetables, bread—listen to his own music, read his favourite books over and over again. He could make friends…make them and keep them. There were no rude wake up calls or ten mile runs at 5:30 in the morning. No sparring or a set amount of time he needed to spend shooting. No races to see who could disassemble, clean, and oil a handgun the fastest.  
_

_But as much as he loved it, there was something missing…_

_There was some_one_ missing. _

_A big brother._

_A best friend._

_The guy that had spent nearly forty-eight hours straight teaching him how to tie his shoelaces. The guy that always gave up the last bit of cereal in the box because he knew it was Sam's favourite. The guy that had driven him to the bus depot and given him every dollar he'd saved up from playing poker and hustling pool._

_The guy that had leaned against their dad's car and watched, stoically, as the bus had pulled away. No emotion on his face, but a world's worth of emotion in his eyes._

_If there was one person in the world that he wanted to share things with—experiences in his classes, with his new friends—it was Dean. He couldn't remember a time in his life when he _hadn't _shared things with his maverick older brother and the idea of not doing it right then made his breath catch in his throat. _

_He was finally free, finally on his own, finally doing what he wanted and in charge of his own life._

_But he missed Dean._

_He let out a breath and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to relieve some of the sudden pressure—_

"_Excuse me?"_

_At the sound of the feminine voice, Sam lowered his hands and turned his gaze upward. There, standing just feet away from him was one of the most beautiful girls he'd ever seen; blonde haired, blue-eyed…fair skin with a splash of freckles across her nose. She was the girl next door. She was the girl Dean would chase after until the end of time if she was willing to put up with him for that long._

_He swallowed hard._

"_Y-Yeah?"_

_She smiled radiantly. "I was wondering if you could help me out?"_

_Sam nodded dumbly. "Sure."_

"_I'm looking for the Princeton Reviews?" She breathed a small laugh and motioned to the truly enormous library around them. "Do you know what section they're in?"_

"_Princeton Reviews for what?"_

"_MCAT testing?"_

"_You're pre-med?"_

_The girl nodded shyly. "Yeah, my first year."_

"_Yeah, me too." Sam motioned to the LSAT prep book sitting on the table in front of him. "I got my Princeton Review yesterday."_

_Moving a little closer to the table, she peered down at the book curiously. "Law student, huh?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_Well, I'll try not to hold it against you." _

_She winked at him and Sam felt his entire face turn red. _

_The girl's smile widened._

"_Uh, well, uh—" He stood clumsily, nearly knocking over the study lamp on the table in the progress. He reached out to steady it and felt his face get even redder. "I uh, I can show you where they are if you want."_

"_Great."_

"_I'm Sam, by the way."_

"_Nice to meet you, Sam By The Way." She extended her hand and when Sam shook it, he couldn't help but notice how smooth her skin was. "I'm Jess."_

_Trying not to trip over his own feet, he rounded the table and motioned for her to follow. "Reviews are just down this way."_

If only Dean could see me now.

_The oldest Winchester brother had _only_ spent years trying to prepare Sam for a world full of girls. Either Dean was a bad teacher or Sam was just too damn shy._

_He led her around one of the big oak bookshelves and came to a slow stop about halfway down, pointing up to one of the upper shelves. "The law texts are up there, so," he paused, scanning the lower shelves. "maybe the pre-meds are down here somewhere?"_

_Jess appeared at his side, remarkably close—so close, in fact, he could smell her hair._

_Strawberries._

_He wondered if her hair was as soft as it looked…_

_She all of a sudden had a truly gigantic book in her hands and the skin between her eyes puckered at the sight of it. "Oh my god—" She bit her lip; Sam swooned. "This book is ridiculous."_

"_Yeah, the uh," He cleared his throat. "The LSAT prep is about the same size."_

"_And I'm guessing we have to read the entire thing?"_

"_My Ethics professor said it was a good idea."_

_She pressed the textbook to her chest and sighed, locking eyes with Sam and sending him another smile. "I guess we both have some serious work to do, huh?"_

_Sam returned the smile, his bangs falling in his eyes when he shyly looked down to the ground. "Yeah, looks like."_

_After a second, Jess asked, "What residence are you in?"_

"_Oak Creek. You?"_

"_Right around the corner. Wilbur house."_

_Sam merely nodded._

God, I'm an idiot.

"_Well—" She held out her hand again. "Thanks again for the help, Sam By The Way."_

_He shook her hand and watched as she walked around him, heading towards the end of the aisle. Before he could stop himself, he was calling out to her, "Hey, Jess?" She came to a stop and turned to look at him, her eyes bright and cheerful. Swallowing hard, he said, "Would you maybe…wanna…get lunch or something?" He could feel himself blushing and nearly passed out when she coloured pink as well. "It'd be nice, y'know…getting to know someone."_

_Jess' blushed deepened and she shyly nodded, clutching her textbook for dear life._

"_Yeah. That sounds nice."_

Sam swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat, the tears building in his eyes.

He remembered it so well.

The smell of her hair, the startling color and sparkle in her eyes, the deliciously adorable pink tint to her cheeks...the smell of polished wood and books. It was as if it had just happened, just yesterday, just a _second_ before.

Dean had stayed silent throughout Sam's story but when he finally did speak, his voice was soft and gentle. "Doesn't sound like it took too long for you two to get together."

Sam sniffled quietly and shook his head, letting out a light chuckle. "Nah, we uh," he swallowed. "we didn't start dating until we were sophomores. Until we both moved off campus."

There was quiet music coming from the car's radio, _Rolling Stones_, and Sam tried to force himself to relax. It wasn't that he was uncomfortable sharing things like that with his brother, not at all…it just hurt. Hurt to think of her, the way she looked, the way she sounded. She'd been perfect. Every inch of her.

Only two weeks after her death, he'd started to panic.

He'd realized that he was forgetting; her laugh, the sound of her voice, the sound of her singing Aretha Franklin in the shower at ungodly hours of the morning. For two years that had been the soundtrack to his life; just as Metallica, the rumble of the Impala and his brother's voice had been the soundtrack _before_ Stanford.

"She was beautiful, Sam."

Dean's voice drifted across to the passenger seat and it was as sincere and kind as Sam had ever heard it.

When he'd first met Jessica, it had surprised him how similar she was to his older brother. They'd had a lot in common—a love of hard rock, muscle cars, leather and homemade apple pie. Throughout those four years of knowing her, having her in his life, it had crossed his mind probably a thousand times that were Jess and Dean ever to meet and actually spend time together, quality time, they would've probably gotten along.

After Dean got passed the obnoxious flirtation stage, anyway.

It had always been a hope of his to one day introduce his brother to the girl of his dreams. To maybe have them be friends, _family_ even. To have all the people he loved together in one room, even if it was for a short time.

But at that moment, all Sam could do was nod, feeling the burn in his throat again.

"Yeah," he responded quietly. "She was."

_END_


	12. P

**Author's Note:** Hey everyone. Happy Friday (since here it's after midnight). I just got in from work and wanted to post this before I went to bed, seeing as how I won't be around all day tomorrow. I hope that you all are gearing up for an amazing weekend! If anyone's planning on being outside having fun, please, catch some rays for me while you're at it? I'm gonna be workin' all weekend :( Bummer.

**Disclaimer:** Ummm, here, let me check...

...

...

...

Nope! Still not mine.

**NOTE: Not a new update, just a re-post :) Sorry about all the confusion everyone!**

* * *

**P is for Puma**

Puma: a very large cat.

* * *

Dean sat on the semi-clean motel bed, one leg bent and the other leisurely outstretched. He was completely surrounded by weaponry, the entire locker in the trunk of the Impala having been cleaned out.

Every few days he followed the same routine; emptied out the locker and meticulously disassembled, cleaned, and oiled every gun they had. _Take care of your guns, they take care of you_. Even though it'd been years since he'd last heard the works spoken out loud, he could hear his father's voice in his head as though it was yesterday.

It was one of many phrases, orders and words that his father had practically imprinted in his mind…

_Be quick, stay low._

_We do what we do and we shut up about it._

_Listen to your instincts…most times they're all you can trust._

_Watch out for Sammy._

Speaking of Sammy…

Sprawled on the second twin bed, the younger brother had finally fallen into something that resembled sleep, his right arm thrown half-hazardly across his face. Dean kept a small part of his attention on the kid as he worked, a habit born out of years and _years_ of practice.

To say that he was merely _happy_ to see Sam finally asleep would be the world's biggest understatement.

The tossing and turning, the low moans, the frantic movements behind Sam's eyelids; the nightmares were taking their toll. He looked haggard, exhausted, as if the slightest wind or gentlest nudge would knock him off his feet. For a guy who was usually so solid and sure in his movements, it was disconcerting—especially for the concerned and conscious big brother who was covertly watching his every move.

And Dean _was_ watching him.

Every minute of everyday.

He'd perfected the art of _Sammy-watching_ at the age of six—it was a talent, a birth right…and with these new and improved ghosts dogging his brother's every step, Dean had had to evolve with the times.

The Beretta was reduced to pieces quickly under his expert fingers. He tried to quiet the slight click as he took apart the slide and couldn't help but cringe when the lump on the other bed stirred.

Stretching his long legs—as a cat would upon waking from a nap—Sam sighed, lifting his arm from his face and squinting in the dim light. "De—" He cleared his throat. "Dean."

"Hey there, princess." He smirked. "You thinkin' about waking up sometime today?"

A slow blink. "What time is it?"

"Almost five."

"Serious?"

"Yeah, I'm serious." The smirk slowly faded to be replaced with a look of genuine concern. "You sure you're feelin' ok?"

He watched as Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, raising one hand and rubbing it down his face. "Yeah…I'm good."

"You sure?"

The kid nodded and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, a hand raking through his stupid hair.

He was starting to look like a sheep dog--long bangs that had surpassed the need for a simple trim _months_ ago. But as ridiculous as it was getting, Dean didn't have the heart to pull rank and find a barber shop. Sammy's hair was _Sammy's hair_...it was sacred and the guy was slightly defensive of it.

"Grab a shower, man…then we'll go get dinner."

"You hungry?"

"I'm friggin' starving." A small smile came across Sam's face; Dean couldn't help but smirk again. "Seriously, dude, go. I won't even complain if you use all the hot water."

"Yeah, you will."

The younger Winchester pushed himself up and rooted through his duffel bag before practically shuffling into the small washroom.

Dean kept his hazels trained on the door long after it clicked shut and long after the sound of groaning pipes as the water turned on. There was a tickle in the back of his mind, a slight buzzing noise that made him involuntarily furrow his brow.

His spidey-sense was tingling.

_But why?_

The windows and doors were closed and locked…

Salt-lines were in down and intact…

Wards were in place…

Setting aside the oil covered rag and the slide of the Beretta, Dean stood from the bed. There was light shining in through the ratty old curtains, signs of the passing cars out in the highway.

Scanning the parking lot quickly, Dean's eyes fell on the gleaming body of the Impala sitting quietly and undisturbed only a few feet from their door.

_What the hell is it?_

He'd been on edge since the night before, since the moment the water spirit had vanished in a burst of hot river water and foam. The incantation had been flawless, Sam's pronunciation and delivery as perfect as always; the detailed ritual in their dad's journal had been followed to the letter. They'd spent _days_ researching, planning, talking; going through every book in the Impala's trunk, thinking of every angle, every possibility. Wakcexi were known to be tricky bastards, attaching themselves to people who passed by the rivers or lakes in which they lived, hence why they were there in the first place; the countless reports of people "not acting like themselves" and eventually committing suicide by drowning themselves in the river.

At first they'd thought it was a demon; lone possession, mass possession…one or more demons taking over residents of the small Texas town and riding them right into their own suicides.

But then Sam, in his usual geekified manner had said, "_Possessing someone to just have them kill themselves? Dean, it doesn't make any sense."_

And so they'd kept on looking, placing one or two embarrassing calls to Bobby in South Dakota and re-reading every piece of literature they had.

Wakcexi.

Water spirits. Dwell in small rivers and lakes. Possess those nearby and direct them into the water, forcing the victim under the surface until the body dies. They then bungee back out and lie in wait for the next opportunity.

_Something's wrong._

"Dean?"

He didn't quite jump at the unexpected voice but he definitely felt his heart rate spike.

Looking over his shoulder at the towel clad Sam standing just outside the bathroom doorway, Dean took a visual inventory—Sam's eyes were awake, alert and enormous…there were red patches on the skin of his arms and chest from the heat of the shower water...and he was still pale, but not as ghostly as before. It was amazing the good things a shower could do. Dean found himself smiling. "You're lookin' better."

"Yeah, I _feel_ better. You ok?"

Dean's eyebrows came up slightly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"It's not every day I see you looking distantly out the window."

"What, a guy can't look outside and just _think_?"

Sam snorted and resumed his trip towards his bed. "I never said _a guy_ couldn't—" He reached for his duffel. "I just said I've never seen _you_ do it before."

Taking once last glance at the luminous and rain-covered Impala, Dean turned away from the window and walked back over to his own bed, lowering himself down once again to the gun-covered bedspread. "Whatever, Sammy—" A sigh. "Oh, by the way, you left your smiley-face boxers in your backpack which is out in the car."

Dean could feel his kid brother's embarrassed glare without even looking.

They ate dinner in the small diner down the road from their motel—Dean ordering his usual burger, piled high with onions…and Sam ordering his usual salad with dressing on the side. The young waitress, who couldn't seem to decide which Winchester she wanted to flirt with on a permanent basis, gave them both a wink as they paid at the register.

Dean couldn't get the smirk off his face as they stepped off the curb, him heading towards the driver's door and Sam towards the passenger door. "Seriously, dude…I've _got_ it."

"Dean. No, you don't."

"I really do."

Sam let out a sudden cough.

"You really _don't."_

Dean frowned in annoyance. "Dude."

"It's a twenty year old waitress, man; don't see any kind of real commitment there."

Dean snorted, pulling open the car door with a familiar creak of hinges. "Newsflash, Sammy…it wasn't really a _commitment_ I was lookin' for." When Sam coughed again, Dean's frown resurfaced. "What're you coughin' like that for?"

Wincing slightly, Sam shook his head. "Just got a tickle."

"A _tickle_?"

_He wasn't sick earlier. Maybe he's comin' down with something?  
_

_But no, I would've noticed.  
_

He coughed again, a hand flying up to his chest as if there was a sudden pressure he was trying to rub away. There was confusion on Sam's face, bewilderment, as if he too was wondering if he was coming down sick and somehow hadn't noticed sooner.

They were tiny coughs at first but as the pair stood there, one on each side of the car, they grew steadily worse—rough, ragged and hoarse…as if the very skin of Sam's throat was protesting against the sudden fit.

"Sam."

He was moving before he was aware of it, his eyes never leaving his little brother's now tear-stained face as he rounded the Impala's front end.

"Sam!"

He gripped the material of Sam's jacket and leaned close, making sure his face was only inches away—one of his thousand versions of _I'm here_. "Sammy, just…take it easy—"

_Christ almighty._

"Take a swallow, breathe."

A tear leaked from Sam's eye as Dean directed their entire weight to rest against the side of the Impala. There was a tingling feeling sweeping across the back of Dean's neck and he knew they were being watched—made sense, seeing as how Sammy was coughing up a lung outside of the busiest diner in town—and before he knew it, a fifty-something year old man had left his wife standing at the entrance and started towards them, a genuinely concerned look on his face.

He wasn't one to really accept help from strangers. When it came right down to it Dean would rather take care of things himself, especially when it came to his brother.

But when a burst of murky water exploded violently from Sam's mouth, completely drenching the front of his shirt and splattering all over the asphalt, Dean's panic made him forget.

"Sammy!"

A second pair of nervous hands made contact with Sam's jacket, Dean and the older man working together to keep the kid on his feet.

Dean didn't see the man turn to his wife, screaming at her to call 911…he didn't hear the mumbling of the small crowd, nosey enough to watch but not brave enough to invade their space. All he could hear, all he could _see_, was his brother; red-faced, soaking wet, not even able to gasp for breath.

It was like Sam was drowning in reverse—body expelling water rather than taking it in. Only when it came to Sam, Dean wasn't exactly a great thinker in panicked situations. _Sam_ was the thinker. He came up with all the plans, all the ideas, all the solutions…he found the untraceable facts and references that made things make sense. With his heart and mind telling him, _screaming_ at him, to get Sam breathing again…he no longer had capacity for rational thought.

The familiar fingers that were grasping his leather jacket slackened only slightly and the relentless flow of water finally, _finally_, slowed. It dribbled down his chin and Dean didn't hesitate in raising his hand and wiping the moisture away from Sam's face. "Sammy?"

"D'n."

"Sammy—" Dean swallowed hard, resting his hand against Sam's cheek and turning the kid's head to face him. "Sam, open your eyes. Look at me."

With what looked like a truly pained effort, Sam forced his eyes open. They were red, bloodshot…as if he'd spent hours upon hours crying, "Sammy."

Sam swallowed and gave a nearly imperceptible nod of his head.

With panic and confusion giving away to sheer relief, Dean wrapped a hand around the back of Sam's neck and pulled him roughly against his chest, the gasping breaths of his little brother warming the material of his black-t-shirt. "Just…just take it easy."

"M-my wife called 911." A shaky voice said from Sam's other side.

Sam let out a low moan, pressing his face into Dean's chest. "No." He could feel him barely shaking his head. "Dean. No."

"Sam, you gotta get checked out—"

He gasped. "No…hospital."

Dean could hear it as plain as day. _Take me home…no doctors, no hospitals…big brother can fix it._

In a whisper meant only for Sam, Dean said, "This might be outta my league, Sammy."

And in a whisper meant only for Dean, Sam replied, "Wakcexi."

_Wakcexi._

_Malevolent water spirit._

_Ended the night before…uneasy feelings…Sam puking up murky _river water_?_

Well, shit.

Casting a thankful but insincere smile at the middle-aged Good Samaritan, Dean, ignoring protests and shouts of _'shouldn't he get looked at?'_ gently folded his brother into the shotgun seat. The Impala sped off mere seconds later, leaving a stymied crowd and a cloud of dust and gravel in her wake.

"_What the hell d'you mean, pukin' up water?"_

Taking a quick peek through the part in the curtains, Dean focused his eyes on the Sammy-shaped lump on the far bed. Being outside the room and away from Sam even for a few minutes was grinding down on his anxiety…but the kid needed sleep and Dean was determined to make sure he got it.

Especially after that afternoon.

So he stood outside, freezing his ass off, his small cell phone pressed tightly to his ear.

They'd sped away from the diner—Sam leaning his head against his window—and even though he claimed upside down and sideways that he was ok, it took Dean less than a second to decide that he wasn't taking any chances.

The short conversation in the car had done nothing but stir up questions; the water spirit was dead, he was _sure_ of it. But Sam seemed convinced that his little episode back in the parking lot was supernatural, and seeing as how Dean had never, not once, seen someone throw up water (with bits of dirt and leaves in it, no less), he was inclined to agree.

The job before the Wakcexi was a black dog in Southern Alabama…the job before _that_ was the somewhat malevolent spirit of a geriatric librarian. It'd been months since the last time they'd worked a job involving a water monster or spirit so the possibility of something coming after them from that far back was next to nothing.

No, if it was anything supernatural, it was the bitch from the night before.

"I can't say it any simpler than that, Bobby. We left the diner, he started coughin', next thing I know he's throwin' up water all over himself." Dean looked back in through the window, checking on Sam again. "It didn't let up, not once."

"_And you boys took care of the Wakcexi."_

"Last night, yeah…but it's gotta be connected right? I mean, people don't just start throwin' up water, not like _that_."

There was a short and contemplative pause, then, _"And Sam's thinkin' it's the spirit?"_

"That's what he said but I've been through dad's journal a thousand times and I read all Sam's notes…that damn thing should be toast."

"_Far as I know there's no lore about it attachin' to people like that but Wakcexi are tricky bitches. I guess anything's possible."_

"Oh well, that's...._great._" Dean sighed, raising a hand and rubbing his eyes tiredly. "What the hell am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

Bobby echoed the sigh. _"Just…keep an eye on him. I got a book I can check out, make a couple calls."_

"How long's that gonna take?"

The anxiousness must've come through in his voice because there was another pause on the line, a thoughtful pause. _"I'll get back to you in a couple hours. Hang tight."_

A clipped response, "Yeah." and Dean snapped his cell phone closed, not even hesitating in slowly and carefully opening their room door.

The warmth hit him pleasantly when he walked in and he couldn't help but let out a breath.

"What'd Bobby say?"

Dean pushed the door closed gently and shrugged a shoulder, speaking into the darkness. "Says he's gonna check a couple things out, get back to us." There was the shuffle of moving blankets and he could just make out Sam sitting up slowly in his bed. "Lie back down, Sammy, you need to sleep."

"I can't sleep anymore, Dean. Can you flip on the light?"

Dean nodded wordlessly before flicking the light switch, making a face in sympathy when a droopy-eyed Sam winced. "Sorry," he slid his cell phone into his hip pocket. "How's the head?"

"Still there, amazingly enough."

"Need another hit of Advil?"

Sam took a second as if thinking about it then gave a slow shake of his head. "Thanks, I think I'm alright."

"We got tons more, dude, so…just holler."

He swallowed and furrowed his brow lightly. "What have you been up to?"

Dean let out a tired breath as he lowered himself into one of the chairs at the table. "Worrying about you. Callin' around, tryin' to make sense of all your notes—"

Sam chuckled. "What's the matter? Can't read them?"

"No, I can read them fine. Just never realized how much your writing is starting to be like dad's."

"Like dad's?"

"Remember what I said? The man writes like Yoda?" Sam chuckled again. "You do too, apparently."

"Come on, Dean; I do not."

"You do, too. It's friggin' scary, man. I couldn't write like that if my life depended on it."

Sam was smiling as he leaned his tired head back against the headboard, his cheeks slightly flushed. "What if the _Impala_ depended on it?"

"Oh, well in that case, I'd sure as hell try."

That time, they both laughed.

Because the idea of Sam coming second, even to the Impala?

It was so ridiculous it was funny.

"So it's just gonna…ease off on its own?"

"_That's what I'm gettin'. All you can do is make sure he starts breathin' again after each fit."_

"Oh, nice."

"_Shouldn't last more than a couple hours, at most. He should be fine by the time the sun comes up."_

Glancing over at the glowing alarm clock, Dean sighed, "Well, it's almost two now." He moved his eyes to settle on Sam. "Sleepin' like a baby."

"_And snorin' like an 18-wheeler, if he's anything like you."_

"Nah, not Sammy. Doesn't know how to snore."

"_Well you sure as hell do."_

"Ok, can we move on please?"

Bobby gave a small chuckle but when he spoke again there was an undercurrent of seriousness. "_So I guess it's safe to say you'll be stayin' up till sunrise?"_

"As long as you guarantee me that this _ends_ at sunrise."

"_I'm guaranteein' it—"_

"Then yeah, it's safe to say that."

The two hunters exchanged a quick but warm goodbye and Dean soon found himself sitting in that same goddamn wooden chair, mere inches from the end of his brother's bed.

"Dean?"

It was accompanied by a slightly wet cough and Dean stood quickly, walking around and crouching down right beside Sam's bed. "You ok?"

The kid raised his head slightly and when he opened his mouth a light stream of murky water dribbled down his chin. Dean didn't even hesitate in pulling his shirt sleeve down to cover his hand, using it to wipe away the moisture.

"What time is it?"

"Nearly two."

Sam swallowed. "You going to sleep?"

_Not a chance in hell._

"Don't worry about me, man. I'll sleep when I'm tired."

"You're tired _now_."

"Yeah, and you're as bossy _now _as you were twenty years ago."

Sam smiled, lowering his head once again to the pillow. "Did Bobby figure it out?"

Dean nodded, "Says it's some kinda twenty-four hour curse brought on by the Wakcexi, your geekified brain was right. Back to normal by morning."

"And you're gonna stay up all night?"

Dean expertly caught another dribble. "Yeah. It's nothin'."

"Want me to stay up with you?"

_A seven year old Sammy, staring up at him with wide and hopeful eyes._

"_Can I stay up with you, Dean?"_

Oh jeez._  
_

"No, you get some rest. We'll hit the road in the morning if you're feelin' up to it."

Sam's brow furrowed. "How in the hell are you gonna drive after bein' up forty-eight hours straight?"

"I dunno, Sam, I'll drive with my eyes closed."

Reaching an arm over to his own bed, Dean grabbed his pillow and gestured for Sam to lift his head. As soon as there was space, Dean swiped Sam's damp pillow and replaced it with his own dry one. "Put your head back down, shut up and go to sleep."

Sam merely blinked a slow blink and let his head sink back down into the pillow.

Dean was in the bathroom when it hit.

The coughing, the hacking, the pain-filled gasping that had him barrelling through the bathroom door and right to Sam's bedside in under two seconds flat.

The flow of water bursting from Sam's mouth was even more relentless than in the diner parking lot; it was filthier than before and the smell coming off it was enough to make Dean's head spin. He reached for the large bucket he'd placed beside the bed earlier and manoeuvred it under Sam's mouth, wincing at the sound of the water splashing against the plastic bottom.

And through it all, in between all the retching and the gasping, Sam was trying to say his big brother's name.

He'd done the same thing when he was sick as a little kid; crouched down in front of the toilet, Dean behind him with a hand holding his hair back…and Sammy's tiny little fingers, reaching back and clutching the material of Dean's shirt as if everything he was depended on that contact.

"_D-Dean…"_

It had always been a plea accompanied by tears and pained moans. And Dean had always responded to it as any older brother or sister would; sitting as close as was physically possible, a hand soothing the kid's trembling back, and a gentle voice.

And also, if Sammy needed it, a hug that lasted _hours_—Dean resting back against the headboard of their bed and Sammy tucked in tight against his side.

Adulthood had brought change…but then _some_ things hadn't changed at all.

"It's ok, Sammy,"

His left hand went to Sam's forehead while the other went straight to the bucket, trying to keep it steady. Even though Sam was in pain and fighting against his rebelling stomach, the moment Dean's skin made contact with his own he seemed to relax. Dean could feel it, sense it. The retching seemed to ease slightly as if that extra bit of physical closeness was exactly what he needed.

"Don't fight it, dude, get rid of it."

The bucket had reached its limit and slowly started to overflow, covering Dean's hands, jeans and all the bed sheets in the foul smelling water.

Sam moaned, "S-Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," he tried to soothe, ignoring the fact that he was drenched in, essentially, his brother's throw up.

Oh well.

Not like it hadn't happened before.

The fit finally seemed to subside and left Sam drawing deep and ragged breaths, his eyes clenched closed over the now sloshing bucket.

Trying to disregard the floating debris hanging around on the surface, Dean carefully took the bucket and set it down on sodden carpet. Sam seemed to almost deflate once the bucket was gone, as if he'd been using it as an anchor.

"You ok?"

Sam swallowed, "Yeah, I-I think so."

"If that's gonna happen again? I'm thinkin' we gotta get a bigger bucket."

Sam slowly opened his eyes and peered down towards the floor, his hazels widening slightly at the mess. "Oh man."

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

"Dean, look at the floor—"

"Forget the floor. Come on," He stood carefully from the edge of the bed and did what he could to help an extremely rubbery Sam to his feet. The carpet seemed to squish under their combined weight.

With very careful steps the duo made their way around Sam's bed and into the bathroom, Dean positioning Sam on the closed toilet seat. He helped him remove his shirt before motioning downwards, "You need help with the bottom half?" Sam shook his head and Dean cleared his throat. "Get in but _take it easy_. I'll get some clean towels and put 'em on the counter for you."

"Towels aren't in here?"

"No, out on the table. I put 'em out earlier just in case."

Sam cringed slightly. "Sorry about the mess in there, Dean."

"It's not that bad," He smiled. "No worse then when you were a kid." He motioned to the shower. "You good to get everything going in here?"

"Yeah, I'm ok."

"I'll check on you in a bit. You don't answer me when I call you, I'm bustin' down the door."

Sam let out a rough chuckle. "Ok."

"Just what you need, more friggin' water—" Still muttering, he headed out of the bathroom and pulled the door gently closed behind him.

The room absolutely _reeked_ and Dean let out a breath, his cheeks puffing slightly.

First thing he did was open the windows, shivering when the cool breeze skirted across his bare arms. He knew from his check of the room beforehand that there was spare linen in the cupboard near the bathroom door, so he headed over, grabbing a set of sheets and two pillow cases. It'd quite literally been _years_ since he'd changed bed sheets and kind of dreaded the attempt. Probably would've been hilarious if Sam was well enough to appreciate it.

He set the bundle of sheets on the table and then grabbed the largest towel he could find, making sure it was soft enough. The shower was already on and he could tell that Sam was in there; the sound was different, water impacting something solid as opposed to the bottom of the tub.

Dean rapped on the door with one knuckle, "Sammy?"

The wall of steam that hit him in the face when he opened the bathroom door was epic and he tried to wave it away with one hand while he set the towel on the counter top. "You doin' alright?"

"I'm ok."

"You sure?"

The very edge of the curtain was swept aside and Sam's soapy hand appeared, fixed in a thumbs up.

The corner of Dean's mouth pulled up in a smile.

Despite the reassurance he still hesitated. His sock feet which were still wet from before seemed almost stuck to the bathroom floor, eyes fixed on where the shower curtain disappeared behind the edge of the tub.

"Dean."

The curtain moved again, that time to reveal a soapy-headed Sam. There was a gentle smile on his; the smile that Dean loved because it was so _Sammy_…and the smile he hated because it instantly made him feel all mushy inside.

"I'm fine."

_Stop worrying. It's ok. No worries. _All rolled into one._  
_

"Yeah. Yeah, ok, I'll just—" Motioning towards the open bathroom door, Dean turned and stepped back into the room uncertainly pulling it closed behind him for the second time.

After standing there for a second and listening closely to the sounds on the other side of the door, Dean shook his head at himself and set to work.

"Dean, it's your bed."

"Look, just…lay down—"

"I'm _not_ taking _your_ bed, Dean—"

"Sam." He practically snarled, pointing a finger authoritatively at his bed. "You're tired, it's dry, lay the _hell_ down."

The kid looked for a moment like a wounded puppy before schlepping over and seating himself gingerly on the edge of the bed. "What about you?"

"I'm gonna change the sheets on your bed."

"You? Change the sheets?"

Dean turned to look at him over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, there a problem with that?"

Sam let out a soft snort. "Nah man, it's just that I haven't seen you change sheets in…what…ten years? Maybe more?"

"So?"

The two stared at each other for a minute before Sam snorted again, raising his hands in surrender. "Yeah, ok, no problem."

"It's not rocket science, Sammy—fitted sheet goes on the bottom, other one goes on top, and you'd have to be a moron to have issues with the pillow cases."

Sam opened his mouth but Dean held up a finger, narrowing his eyes, "You say '_I rest my case'_, I swear, I'll drop you."

Sam simply smiled.

Every time he blinked, it took longer and longer to force his eyes open again.

It wasn't that he wasn't used to pulling all nighters, hell, sometimes _two_ nighters—one time, in Ohio, Karolyn George had tried to entice him pull a _three_ nighter.

_That_ one had nearly killed him.

Usually he could handle it, it wasn't a problem. But he had a sneaking feeling that the stress and worry was starting to weigh heavily on his already burdened shoulders. It was _Sammy_ after all.

Following the fit that had nearly destroyed their room floor as well as Dean's nasal passages, there'd been one more attack only about two hours later. Sam had been asleep when it had struck with the force of a wrecking ball, not even giving him the chance to become fully aware or even sit up. But the champ that the kid was, he'd somehow managed to reach the bucket and then had simply laid there, forcing out the water over the side of the mattress as Dean crouched down beside the bed as close as he could get.

Body completely worn out and chest sore from all the heaving not-so-little Sammy had fallen back into sleep again relatively quickly, his pale face nearly glowing in the darkness of their room.

He didn't have a fever which was an enormous plus and if the faint orange light starting to appear over the horizon was any indication—and if Bobby's research had been worth _anything_—it was only set to last another hour, maybe less.

Dean looked over at the alarm clock.

_4:46am._

Another slow blink.

"You still awake over there?"

The tired and groggy voice gave Dean a small shot of alertness and he cleared his throat, moving to sit up straighter in his chair. "Still kickin'."

Pawing the blankets away from his face, Sam slowly quirked an eyebrow. "That's you kicking? Looks more like _drooping_ to me."

"Says the guy who's lookin' like a human burrito in those blankets."

"Yeah, I'm feeling droopy, I'll admit it."

Dean couldn't help it, he smiled a tiny smile. "Do an inventory for me."

Sam moved around slightly and then sighed. "Feeling ok. Still kinda tired, but better."

"How's the stomach?"

"Really…_really_ worn out."

"Thank Christ. Thought that belly of yours would _never_ quit."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, you're tellin' me."

Bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, Dean slowly made his way to his feet, raising his arms above his head in a stretch; he felt things pop and shift and couldn't hold in the groan. "Oh _yeah_, that's the stuff."

There was a Sammy-chuckle. "Dude, you're like a cat."

"A _cat_?"

"Only a cat would look _that_ euphoric while stretching."

"Hey, you've looked pretty _euphoric_ yourself after a good stretch. Maybe it's a genetic thing."

He smiled tiredly. "Yeah, you never know. Does that mean _you_ got all the cat genes and _I_ got all the handsome genes?"

"Yeah, if havin' an ass where your face should be is considered _handsome_—"

Dean ducked just as the pillow sailed over his head, hitting the wall with a very unsatisfactory thud.

"_So how's the patient?"_

"The same as always, a pain in my ass."

Bobby laughed gently and Dean could picture the old man shaking his head. _"You two, I'm tellin' ya. Can you guys _ever_ finish a hunt without somethin' goin' bad?"_

Dean furrowed his brow. "Sure we can! There was that black dog job out in Carson. Both made it outta there and nothin' happened."

"_Yeah, and when was that?"_

"I dunno—" He squirmed a bit. "About twelve years ago now."

"_And you just proved my point, well done."_

"Hey, come on now, what happened here wasn't our fault. You said yourself Wakcexi are tricky bitches."

"_Yeah, I guess that's true. Just do us all a favour and ask your brother to gussy up his banishments; there's a reason that bastard attached itself to him, maybe he missed somethin' in the ritual."_

"I won't tell him you said that—he might get offended."

"_I don't care if he gets offended. Damn near got himself killed with this crap. It could've been a lot worse, Dean._" Bobby paused knowingly; Dean swallowed. "_You two got off lucky. _Sam_ got off lucky."_

"Yeah, I hear you." Dean turned his eyes over to his brother who was stretched out on his bed, flat on his back. The kid's eyes were closed but his chest was rising and falling rhythmically. "Lemme tell you though; if he can't start stayin' awake longer than a second and a half, he's gettin' checked out."

"_He's probably worn out somethin' wicked. All you can do is let him sleep it off."_

"I'll see if I can get him road worthy by tonight. If I can, we'll be headin' your way."

"_I'll get your room all made up._" Bobby softened his voice slightly. "_You make sure _you _get some sleep before headin' out. Don't need more drama with you fallin' asleep at the wheel, y'hear me?"_

"Loud and clear. I'll call you later."

He snapped his phone closed quietly and concentrated all of his attention back on his sleeping brother.

Sam shifted slightly and in his sleep slid his arms up over his head, stretching practically from the top of his head clear down to his toes. The stretch made him nearly a foot taller and his feet extended out over the end of the bed, his shirt rising slightly and showing a small part of his stomach.

He let out a low and satisfied breath, the corners of his mouth lifting in an unconscious grin.

_Dude, you're like a cat._

_Only a cat would look _that_ euphoric while stretching._

Leaning back against the wall tiredly, Dean merely smiled.

_END_


	13. Q

**A/N: **Hey everyone! So sorry it took so long to get this updated. I got caught up with work and then before I knew it, my muse was on a cruise ship somewhere completely unreachable lol Anyway, this one is very short but it got the gears grinding again, so that's at least something. Hope that you like it and the next update is coming soon!

**Disclaimer:** Here, hold on...lemme check...

..

..

..

..

Umm, that would be a no.

* * *

**Q is for Quirk**

Quirk: odd mannerism; a peculiar habit, mannerism, or aspect of somebody's character or personality.

**

* * *

**

**Sam's Leg Bouncing**

The table was shaking relentlessly, to the point where Dean's eyes could no longer focus on the small print of the paper he was reading. His eyes darted upwards along with his eyebrows.

Sam was sitting across from him, his head turned as he looked out the diner window at the passing traffic.

Bouncing his leg up and down on the ball of his foot.

It was a nervous habit from Sam's childhood; the one that _still _drove Dean completely insane.

"Sam."

No reaction. The shaking intensified and he put down the newspaper. "_Sam_."

Finally the kid looked up, eyebrows raised to indicate he was listening. The shaking stopped.

"What's wrong with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do I_ mean_?" Dean furrowed his brow. "You seem tense."

"Why would you say that?"

The table started shaking again—ripples appeared in Dean's water glass, his fork rocked back and forth, he could feel the vibrations in the floorboards.

All he could do was blink. "Oh. I dunno."

Sam finally seemed to realize what he was doing and with what looked like a truly physical effort, he stilled his leg and let out a breath, looking somewhat sheepish. "Sorry."

"You still bitin' your nails to?"

"No. But I could do that if it's less annoying."

A big brother's blank stare.

_Cheeky bastard…_

_

* * *

_

**Dean Fixing Electronics and/or Appliances by Smacking Them**

Sam sat at the rickety old kitchen table and raised his glass to take a sip of orange juice when a loud and obnoxious clanking noise from behind the refrigerator made him jump.

It was a common enough noise in Bobby's house. The older hunter claimed that the battered old ice box was older than he was and had seen a _lot_ more abuse; _and_ just like him, it was still goin' strong. The ice build-up in the freezer was borderline ridiculous and the drawers had stopped sliding smoothly back before even Dean was born.

But it was Bobby's and both brothers knew the familiar kitchen wouldn't be the same if the fridge was shiny and new as opposed to scratched, scuffed and dented.

Sam raised his glass again.

The fridge clanked again.

"Son of a _bitch_."

Before Sam could do or say a word, Dean stomped his way into the kitchen and right up to the fridge mid-clank, firing out with his right hand and landing a perfectly timed and well-over-done smack to the side.

The fridge fell silent.

Sam simply stared.

Frowning at the contraption, as if daring it to make more noise, Dean muttered, "Stupid, friggin' fridge from the stone age."

"Dean."

The two brothers locked eyes at Sam's polite summons and taking in the expression on his big brother's face, Sam kept his own face completely stoic.

Dean immediately started squirming.

"It got annoying."

"Really? Couldn't tell."

The two stared at each other before Dean awkwardly cleared his throat and left the kitchen, Sam watching him until he was in the hallway and out of sight.

The fridge had obviously gotten the message.

It kept quiet.

* * *

**Sam Clicking His Clicky Pen**

_click click click click click_

"Lay it out for me again."

Sam sighed, rearranging the papers he held in his hands. "Ok, so…" _click click click click "_probable haunted house. Built in 1974 and ever since then over ten families have moved out less than a year after moving in."

"Why?"

"Scratching noises in the basement and attic, flickering lights, leaky faucets, insect activity. The most recent family, the Zampellas, moved out after their five-year-old daughter got locked in the linen closet."

Dean couldn't help but frown. "Why is _that_ supernatural? You locked yourself in your fair share of cupboards and closets when you were a kid."

"Yeah, but once the parents realized she was in there, they couldn't get the door open." _Click click click click "_Called the fire department? It took half an hour of hitting the door with a battering ram before it finally caved."

Dean shrugged. "Strong doors."

"Half an hour, Dean?"

"Yeah, ok, that's weird."

_click click click click click_

He glanced over as the infernal clicking started up again, alternating between glaring at the pen in his brother's hands and the horizon on the road ahead.

They'd been in the car for nearly four hours on the way across Tennessee and intense boredom had bred a new habit in Dean's little brother; relentlessly clicking the top of his pen. Since they'd been kids Sam had had hundreds of goofy little habits to keep himself entertained in the car—he slept, snored, drooled, sang, nattered and hummed—but none of those habits irritated Dean as much as that _goddamn pen._

_Click click click click click_

_Click click click_

_Click click click click_

Turning his eyes back to the road and keeping his face completely calm and serene, Dean casually rolled down his window. A relentless stream of air burst into the car and without even looking, he reached over and snatched the pen right out of Sam's hand, tossing it out the window.

There was silence in the car as he rolled the window back up, Sam watching him blankly from the passenger seat.

Finally, the kid said, "There another pen in the glove box?"

"There's another pen in the glove box."

Thankfully, one that wasn't capable of clicking.

* * *

**Dean Putting the Car Keys in a Safe Place, Then Forgetting Where He Put Them**

The panic set in very slowly.

The pockets of his leather jacket, the pockets of every pair of jeans he owned, the deepest corners and furthest reaches of his duffel bag…hell, the deepest corners and furthest reaches of _Sam's_ duffel bag. They weren't in the car, on the floor, under the bed or in the bathroom.

_Where the _hell _are they?_

After a few more minutes of frantic searching, Dean stood up in the center of the room and let out a breath. Then in a very uncharacteristically high voice, "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

Sam's voice filtered through the closed bathroom door and after a second, it creaked open, Sam's head peeking out. "Dean?"

The older man caught his lower lip between his teeth and looked over, the two locking eyes.

And they stared at each other. Dean panicking and Sam reading his mind.

"Relax, Dean; you don't have to hot-wire your baby—" he smiled and motioned towards the beds. "They're in the drawer of the nightstand."

The panic melted from Dean's face as his mind connected the dots; Sam's smile grew before he disappeared back into the bathroom.

Dean merely stood there, feeling slightly stupid as he looked over at the nightstand.

* * *

**Sam Always Eating the Fries First**

"I don't get why you do that."

"Do what?"

There was a loud squirting noise as Dean loaded up the side of his plate with ketchup. As he did this, he motioned to his brother's plate. "You eat your fries first."

"So? What's wrong with that?"

"Well, I mean—by the time you finish the fries, you're too full to eat the burger."

Accepting the ketchup bottle, Sam deadpanned. "You've put a lot of thought into this."

"Sammy, the burger is the best part."

"I think the _fries_ are the best part."

"How is that even possible?"

Sam couldn't help but laugh, popping one of his last French fries into his mouth.

Dean shook his head, putting a real effort into picking up his gigantic burger with both hands. "Seriously, man," he said, "I don't get you sometimes."

"Yeah, well, multiply that by about twenty years? And you'll be somewhere close to where _I_ am when it comes to you."

"What are you talkin' about? I'm easy to get."

Sam smirked, "Well, you're _easy_, I'll give you that."

Dean simply glared across the table.

* * *

**Dean Singing '**_**Don't Stop Believin''**_** When Bored**

"A singer in a smoky room…smell of wine and _cheap_ perfume—"

"Dean."

"For a smile they can share the night, it goes on and on and on and on—"

"_Dean_—"

"Strangers…waiting…up and down the boulevard—"

"Dean!"

Snapping out of it, he looked up and was greeted with a murderous expression on his little brother's face. Blinking a few times, he made a _what_? face.

"Journey? Really?"

"Journey, really, what?"

"You've been singing that song for half an hour."

Dean frowned, "Have not."

"Have so." The book the younger man had been reading snapped closed and a smile spread across his face; a smug, amused smile. "Since when do you like _Journey_?"

He fidgeted in his seat for a second, then, "I like _Journey_ at the same times that I like _Bon Jovi_."

"Which is when?"

"During extreme situations only."

Sam's smile grew. "And this is an extreme situation _how_?"

"I'm bored off my freakin' face."

And with that, Sam started laughing.

* * *

Everyone is different. They do different things, enjoy different things, act in different ways. People are unique.

We learn the habits of those close to us and come to expect them and appreciate them; they make up that particular person-make that person _unique_-and are probably some of the reasons we love that person so much. Personality and habits make us who we are.

And if you can love every habit, even the obnoxiously annoying ones, then you're exactly where you need to be.

You're home.

_END_


	14. R

**Author's Note: **Hey all! Hope everyone had an awesome July 1st and July 4th (depending on where you're from). I just got in from work and wanted to get this one posted. It's enormous, I know, I'm sorry. I was originally gonna post it in 2 parts but just decided to get 'er done! A BIG THANKS and a gigantic hug goes out to **skag trendy** who took time away from writing her own wonderful stories (which I'm truly addicted to) to take a first look at this for me-I wasn't sure about this one at first and having her opinion was invaluable. So thank you, darling! This one's for you :)

**Disclaimer:** Still not mine. If they were, season 6 would've started AS SOON AS season 5 ended...none of this _'waiting for months_' stuff.

*frowns*

* * *

**R is for Regret**

Regret: feeling sorry for something; mourning for something previously done or something _not_ done; feeling a sense of loss.

* * *

The house was almost eerily quiet—the crackling fire in the grate accompanied by the occasional sound of a page turning or someone sniffling.

The three of them had been huddled in the darkened library for nearly an hour and Dean had admitted to himself quite some time before that he was damn exhausted. He didn't even have the energy to be bored.

After nearly fourteen hours of solid driving they'd arrived tired and haggard on Bobby's front doorstep that morning, schlepping their bags and dragging their feet. The blitz had lasted nearly three weeks—one job quite literally after another—and both brothers had long-since started feeling the effects; bruised ribs and a minor concussion for Sam…a dislocated shoulder, a nasty scalp laceration and a minorly rigid abdomen for Dean. They'd patched each other up as best they could and then hit the road, calling Bobby on the way and letting him know they were coming in clipped. The old man had come through for them, meeting them outside and helping a weary Sam direct an even wearier Dean through the front door.

Dean had been placed on the couch and he'd stayed there all day, drifting in and out of sleep as Sam situated himself in the over-stuffed armchair with a book by the fireplace. Every few _minutes_ the younger man's hazel eyes drifted over, soft and concerned. Every _half_ _hour_ he would ask gently if Dean was alright, and despite being tired and incredibly lazy, he would always respond—_"I'm ok, Sammy. Just restin' my eyes."_

Truth was his entire body was sore. His arms, his legs, his stomach…hell, even his _hair_ hurt.

But _that_ little tidbit was his own secret to keep.

It was then that Bobby wandered in, groaning as he plunkered himself down in the chair beside Sam. "You'd think I was a goddamn dispatch center, for cryin' out loud."

"_Dispatch center_?" Dean opened his eyes and looked over. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"Was just on the phone with Carl down in Little Rock."

"Yeah?"

"Says he's heard rumour of somethin' supernatural in Southern Arkansas; wanted to know if there were any hunters around there."

Dean frowned. "He can't go himself?"

"Apparently?" Bobby made a face. "He's _retired."_

Sam shook his head while Dean merely frowned even more. "Retired?

"That's what he said. Says he's outta the game, doesn't want anythin' else to do with it."

Sam sighed, "Well, _that_ I can understand."

"Guys like us don't _get outta the game_, Bobby." Dean sighed as he pushed himself into a sitting position, ignoring the sharp pain that radiated up his side. "We either stay sharp or we bite it."

"Nice, Dean."

"Well, it's true, isn't it?" He glanced over at his little brother. "Seriously, dude; when have you ever heard of a hunter droppin' out and _stayin'_ out?"

The two stared at each other for a second before Sam sighed again, shrugging a shoulder.

"Exactly. Once you're into all this crap, there's no _chance_ you can just ignore it."

"Doesn't stop you from wanting to try though. Does it?"

Bobby let out a tired groan and leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. "Yeah, well, _this_ guy's been talkin' about droppin' out for years." He glanced at each brother in turn. "He lost his little girl about three years ago to a werewolf in Carson; swore that once he hunted the bastard down, he'd be done."

"Did he?"

"Did he what?"

"Find the werewolf."

Bobby nodded. "Last year—'bout a month before you two showed up durin' all that demon business with your daddy."

At the seemingly casual mention of their father, all Dean could do was swallow past the lump that had formed deep down in his throat. It'd been just over a year since they'd burned John Winchester's body but it still felt like they'd watched the man die only hours before.

On the incredibly short list of things that scared the now eldest Winchester, _hospitals_ had shot to the very top.

Hence why he and Sam had both come to _Bobby's_ to heal as opposed to going where the good drugs and pretty nurses were. Even a year later, he still could hardly stand crossing the threshold of a hospital emergency room.

Dean was no stranger to loss. He understood why a man would spend years chasing after a single werewolf; it was the same reason his dad had been chasing after the yellow-eyed demon…why _he_ had and why _Sam_ had. The same reason why killing the son of a bitch had been one of the most satisfying moments of his entire life.

You_ destroy _my life_, _I'll_ take _yours_._

Revenge.

Jesus, he was starting to sound like his dad.

Dean could tell that Sam had thought the same thing and had ended up at the same conclusion—the murder of their mother, the death of their father, the murder of Sam…and Dean's prolonged suicide.

The deal.

_Not tonight._

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Ok, so _what's_ goin' on in Arkansas?"

"Oh who knows," Bobby nearly growled, "Carl's a damn fool, you ask me. Sees monsters everywhere he goes. Wild imagination."

Sam put in, "Anyone near him that can take it?"

"There's always guys hangin' around. I'll make a couple calls first thing in the morning."

The words hadn't even left Bobby's mouth and there was a tremendous crash of thunder, strong enough to make the windows rattle in their wooden frames. The lightening followed seconds later and lit up the entire room before disappearing and plunging them back into the firelight.

"Whoa."

Bobby sighed. "I guess this is the rain they've been natterin' about all damn day." He looked to Dean. "Sure hope the windows are up in your car."

"Sammy?"

"I took care of it, Dean."

He sent the kid a small smile. _Thanks._

"Either you boys hungry?"

It was then that the frantic knock came.

Barely heard over a second thundercrash, it had a tinge of desperation to it. The three men glanced at each other before Bobby pushed himself from his perch and headed down the hallway towards the front door, switching on lights as he went.

Dean gingerly got up from the couch and frowned as he and Sam walked together, side by side into the darkened corridor. From where they were standing they watched as Bobby pulled open the front door—the cool and damp breeze from outside making Dean shiver. And there, completely soaking wet and visibly freezing stood a teenage girl; she was no older than twenty, holding a set of car keys in her hand as if they were her very lifeline.

"Cheyanne?"

The surprise in Bobby's voice was clear but neither brother had time to really process it. The girl stepped into the house and walked right into Bobby's open arms, moulding herself to his chest and crying with such force that Dean was amazed she managed to stay on her feet. Bobby immediately returned her embrace and pulled her further into the house and out of the cold. His hand went right to her rain-soaked hair, smoothing it down and soothing her with whispered words and a tight hug.

An elbow was shoved into Dean's side and he turned, locking eyes with a confused looking Sam. With just his face, Dean sent the kid an answering message—_don't ask me man, I got no clue._

Even though he had no idea who this girl was, he couldn't deny that there was something familiar about her. Her eyes, which he could see even from where he was standing, were the most electric blue he'd ever seen…in fact, he'd only ever seen _one_ _other_ _person_ with eyes like that.

He swallowed hard.

"Cheyanne, what in hell's blazes are you doin' here?"

The girl continued to cry and it looked like it only took a minute for Bobby to make the decision. "Alright, into the library by the fire before you die of cold."

He kicked the front door closed effectively cutting off the sound of the torrential downpour and kept the young girl tight to his side, starting back down the hall. Grabbing a handful of Sam's shirt sleeve, Dean pulled him close as the older hunter squeezed passed them, leaving a trail of wet footprints as they went.

"Dean?"

He looked over to Sam with raised eyebrows.

"You know who that is?"

"No idea," he nodded back towards the library. "Come on."

When they walked back in, they found that Bobby had situated the girl on the sofa with a blanket and was sitting beside her, rubbing her arms through the thick material as if trying to warm her with friction.

Sam eyed her sympathetically before making his way back over to the armchair. He motioned for Dean to sit and the moment the older man's butt hit the cushion, he gingerly settled himself down onto the right arm, letting out a slow breath.

The two of them watched as the girl's face pinked up slightly, the warmth returning to her cheeks after being outside in the rain for so long. Bobby spoke to her quietly, "Cheyanne, what the hell are you doin' showin' up here on your own at this time of night?"

She sniffled. "I drove here."

"You _drove_ here?" Bobby blinked. "In whose car?"

"The Mustang."

Bobby's eyes seemed to widen slightly and he pulled away from her, gripping her by the upper arms and giving her a slight shake. "In your _sister's_ car? Where the hell is she?"

One of Cheyanne's small hands appeared from under the folds of the blanket. She was holding out the car keys and gave a small whimper when Bobby gently took them. "She'll….want those back."

"Cheyanne, _where_ is Julie?"

Dean's breath caught in his chest.

_Julie Connor. _

It all came rushing back, hitting him like a sledgehammer.

_They were eight. Gentle and fragile arms wound around him as the two of them shared a blanket in the darkened living room; her honey-coloured hair tickled his nose and smelled of coconuts. Sam tiredly scurried up onto the couch and forced his way between them, looking for a big brother's warmth._

_They were ten. He held her hand as they walked up to the wrinkled little creature wrapped in a pink blanket, staring out at them with big wide eyes and flushed cheeks. His dad chuckled from the other side of the room. "She's beautiful, Jake. Looks just like her mother." There was another laugh, a feminine laugh, and the woman holding the baby smiled down at the two of them. "Really, John? I was thinking she looked more like her big sister."_

_They were fifteen. The very second her lips touched his there was an explosion of light behind his closed eyes…a burst of emotion that he'd never felt before with a girl. Only with Jewel. It would be years before he had that feeling again._

Dean swallowed thickly and directed his eyes once again to the teenager. Now that his mind had connected the dots the resemblance between Cheyanne and her sister was striking. It was as if he was looking at a younger version of the oldest Connor girl…and something deep inside started to hurt.

Sam must've sensed something because his shoulder made gentle and reassuring contact with Dean's.

_Sammy._

Cheyanne's upset voice managed to break through.

"We were down in Chamberlain. Julie's been following omens for weeks and they led us there—"

Sam spoke up, "Demon omens?"

The girl nodded. "Cattle deaths, electrical storms—"

Dean tried to ignore how sad it was that a teenager knew things like that. But then that'd been _his _and _Sam's_ adolescence too.

"We got to Chamberlain yesterday morning. Julie found out that the demon was possessing some math teacher from the high school and she left to go find her around five."

"Today?"

She nodded again.

Bobby sighed quietly. "Then what?"

"She left me the car keys and told me that if she wasn't back by eight, she wanted me to take the car and come here." Cheyanne's eyes filled with tears and her voice broke. "She never came back."

Dean felt his hands clench against his will.

She was such an emotional train wreck over the entire thing that Bobby wrapped the blanket even tighter around her and sent the boys a look, silently asking if they minded giving up their room. They both shook their heads in unison and when Bobby escorted a sobbing Cheyanne slowly up the stairs, Sam followed, returning moments later with their three duffels.

Dean stood from the chair cradling his aching shoulder and let out a breath, moving towards the far window. There was another flash of lightening and just as he'd done when he was a kid he counted the number of seconds until the thunder hit, strong enough to shock his eardrums.

"Ten seconds." Sam said quietly from across the room.

"Yeah, storm's about two miles away."

"I remember you teaching me that when we were kids."

Dean couldn't help the small smile. "You weren't afraid of storms after that. You had too much fun figurin' out the math."

"I carried a calculator around for months."

The smile grew.

"Hey Dean?"

"Yeah."

"Uh," Sam hesitated slightly. "Somethin' tells me you know this girl better than she knows you."

He looked over his shoulder. "What do you mean?"

"Cheyanne and her sister? Julie?" Sam shrugged a shoulder. He wasn't judging…he was merely curious. Concerned. "Do you know them or something?"

_Of course he doesn't remember._

"Yeah. Well, _Julie_ anyway." He raised a hand and gently, _very_ gently massaged his shoulder. It throbbed and smarted and Dean once again thought about asking for some of Bobby's heavy duty pain meds. He gritted his teeth for a moment. "You were pretty young when we first met them. Dad was pals with their parents. You don't remember at all?"

There was silence for a moment, then, "I remember a big ass station wagon."

Dean couldn't help but chuckle a bit. "Yeah, damn thing was a tank. It was their mom's car. She could hardly drive it."

"You seemed to tense up when Bobby mentioned Julie's name. You two have a thing?"

"I was fifteen the last time I saw her, man."

"Yeah, so, this is _you_ we're talking about," there was a smile in Sam's voice, "So I ask again, did you two have a thing?"

Had it been a _thing_?

The two hunting families hadn't seen each other all that often, the Winchesters and the Connors, but when they _had_ gotten together the memories were all good ones; hot and crumbly apple-caramel pie, poker lessons, Led Zeppelin versus the Beatles, not to mention hunting stories that could go on for hours at a time.

And then there'd been Julie; soft skin, a deeply rooted love for hard rock, the only teenage girl for miles that had found the Impala as…_appealing_ as he himself had.

He'd always loved her, but never the way he'd loved Meaghan Wilcox or Melissa Cutting. _Those_ girls he'd snuck into the backseat of his dad's Chevy; Julie on the other hand would lay next to him on the hood and argue the finer points of football or complain about that _one_ diner along Colorado's interstate that served tuna surprise on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

She'd lived a life similar to his own and he'd loved her for it.

It wasn't until just after his fifteenth birthday, and the conversation on the hood of the Impala that had turned into the greatest kiss of his teenage existence, that his feelings had rebelled against him. Suddenly she was a girl, a very attractive girl.

A girl that knew what it was like to be an older sibling while at the same time was still trying to figure out how to be an unofficial parent.

It'd been one kiss.

And then they'd left—Jake and Abigail Connor loading the car and tossing Julie and the then five year old Cheyanne into the backseat, pulling out of the small parking lot of the motel where they'd all been staying.

That had been the last time Dean had heard of Julie Connor.

Until a drenched and crying Cheyanne had shown up on Bobby's doorstep.

He could hear Sam saying his name but didn't fully return to reality until he felt the tap on his uninjured shoulder. "Dean?"

"Yeah," he cleared his throat. "Uh, I don't think it was a _thing_. It just…_was._"

"Ooook. What's that mean?"

"Old man Connor and dad used to hook up all the time and go on hunts together. It's not like we saw each other all that often, hell, you barely even remember them." Dean shrugged. "Just a girl, dude…that's it."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Dean sensed Sam open his mouth to continue the conversation but when Bobby stomped his way back into the library both brothers turned their serious but curious eyes to him, mouths shut. It was Sammy who spoke first, "She ok?"

"For now, I guess. Just hope the girl can get some sleep up there." He looked pointedly over to Dean. "That girl and her sister ringin' any bells for you?"

Dean nodded tightly in response.

"Too many. Where are her parents?"

Bobby's shoulders visibly slumped. "Jake and Abigail died eight years ago—" both brothers recoiled slightly in surprise. "Car accident couple miles outside of Wichita. Julie was twenty-two, Cheyanne was twelve. They've been on their own ever since."

_Fuckin' Kansas._

Dean shook his head and breathed a bitter laugh.

Sam seemed to understand what he was thinking because he looked down towards the floor. "Wow."

"Yeah. Julie'd already been huntin' for a while by then and she kinda…slipped right into it. Cheyanne does what she can to help out with the research part of it. Abigail never wanted her girls huntin' so Julie tries to keep the kid out of it as much as she can."

"Was it a supernatural that caused the accident?"

"They never found out. Tanker truck t-boned them in an intersection, damn near broke the car in half. By the time the cops got there the driver had taken off."

In a painfully quiet voice, Sam said, "Sounds familiar."

"Or maybe it was nothin' more than some long-distance driver that fell asleep at the wheel. Cops never found the guy, stopped lookin' after a couple months."

"She tell you anymore about the job they were workin' on?"

Bobby nodded, eyes locked on Dean's as he sat himself down behind his desk. "Cheyanne said that before she bolted, she grabbed all Julie's notes on the case. They're out in the car. Doors are unlocked."

Dean didn't even hesitate, shooting a quick glance at Sam as he left the library and headed down the hallway, out the front door, down the front steps and into the rain.

The black Mustang—'67 Shelby, if he knew anything at all—was sitting parked rather haphazardly close to his own car. Mud covered nearly the entire front end as well as directly behind the wheel wells, signifying Cheyanne's hurry when she'd been driving.

Despite the fact that it was chilly outside, the rain soothed his shoulder as it quickly soaked through the material of his outer shirt and then the black t-shirt underneath. It was numbing, cooling, and he shivered.

He approached the Mustang quickly and pulled the passenger door open.

Sitting there on the black leather seat was an enormous laptop case as well as a small grey duffel bag. Dean stood and stared for a second before grabbing both and pushing the door closed, trying to ignore the truly gripping scent of coconuts and leather that filled the interior of the car.

_She smiled at him, eyes bright. "One day, I swear, I'm gonna have one."_

"_Oh yeah? What colour?"_

"_I dunno. Probably black…like your dad's car." Resting her head on his shoulder, she looked up at him. "What do you think?"_

_He couldn't help but return the smile, taking a deep breath. _

"_Sounds good."_

His boots slid alarmingly in the thick mud that had become Bobby's driveway and when he reached the porch he felt goosebumps explode on his skin. Looking over his shoulder at the Mustang one last time, he let himself back into the house.

The heat of the library strangely enough made him shiver again as he dropped the computer case and the duffel onto the coffee table next to where Sam was sitting.

Sam looked up at him and Dean forced a smirk.

"Get to work, Poindexter."

* * *

"So this demon's been ridin' people all over lower forty—Chamberlain, Sioux Falls…even a couple people up in Gettysburg. The entire state's lit up with omens."

"How do you know it's just the one?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't. But I'm really, _really_ hoping it's just one." Dean merely blinked. "Julie's notes are outrageous. She's been tracking this one demon for the past week; wrote down nearly every move it's made."

"You see a pattern?"

"As far as I can tell, it moves in between those three towns—Chamberlain, Sioux Falls and Gettysburg. According to the notes, it moves clockwise…so…it most recently hit Chamberlain—"

"So we're goin' to Gettysburg." Dean sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Two hour drive."

There was a short silence and then Sam looked to Bobby. "Does Julie wear an anti-possession charm?"

"Far as I know."

"But if the demon's got enough juice, it can overthrow a charm like that. Right?"

All Bobby did was nod.

"There's no way she'd leave Cheyanne on her own and she would've called if she couldn't get back in time." Dean shook his head. "Somethin' happened."

"Are we going out there, Dean?"

Looking directly into the still flickering flames, Dean once again started subconsciously rubbing his sore shoulder. "Yeah," he said quietly, "we're goin'."

His watch told him that it was just about two-thirty in the morning as Dean quietly climbed the rickety old staircase.

Sam had been horrified when he'd realized that the keys to the Impala _and_ Dean's jacket had been abandoned in their bedroom when he'd initially gone to retrieve their duffel bags. He'd volunteered to go but Dean had waved him off, preferring to retrieve the sacred items himself.

His boots made a light noise on the floorboards of the upstairs hallway and when he entered the bedroom, he did it as quietly as he could. Cheyanne was lying on what was usually Sam's bed; her hair was fanned out across the pillow…and her shoulder was quivering and shaking. Even in the darkness he could see it.

She was crying.

_Ah hell._

Looking longingly at his leather jacket which was draped over the wooden chair near the far window, he changed course, moving to stand in between the two beds instead.

Now that he was closer to her, he could hear her quiet sobs. Her fingers were clutching at the pillowcase tightly as if looking for an anchor, something with which to comfort herself.

Swallowing awkwardly, he asked, "You doin' ok?"

For a moment he didn't think she was going to answer. But she sniffled and then turned to look at him over her shoulder, those familiar piercing blue eyes seeming to stare right through him.

It was a familiar feeling.

Quietly, she said, "Can't sleep."

Simply because he didn't know what else to do with them, Dean crossed his arms over his chest, letting out a breath through his nose. "Me and my brother…we're gonna go get Julie." At those words she looked at him again. "We figure the demon's headin' to Gettysburg. We're gonna track it down there."

Her brow furrowed and he could read the question in her expression. _Hunters?_

The corner of his mouth lifted. "Yeah. Our whole lives."

"Guess I should've figured," She turned onto her back and pushed herself into a sitting position, leaning back against the headboard. "I came in talking about demons, you guys didn't even blink."

"Let's just say we've been around the block a couple times."

She looked up at him and let out a watery laugh, "I can't seem to stop shaking."

It was obvious the girl was upset, shaken up. When your family consists of only _you_ and one other person, the welfare of that person controls absolutely everything; your lungs, your heart, your legs, your stomach…even your nerves. If something threatens that _one_ person, your entire body can rebel against you.

Dean knew that from personal experience.

"This the first time something like this has happened to you guys?"

The nod that she gave was both expected and _unexpected._

He'd lost count of the number of times he'd nearly lost Sam since they'd both gotten into hunting full time—possession, angry spirits, bullet holes and knife wounds…internal bleeding, abduction, threats of Columbian neckties. It was a normal occurrence for one brother to have to rescue the other, and it was usually Dean that had to do the rescuing (seeing as how little Sammy had gigantic _kidnap me _and _damage me_ signs on his back).

Julie had obviously done a good job with _her_ most prized possession.

A better job than Dean himself had.

"Julie's careful. She tries to…keep me away from everything." Cheyanne laughed again. "It drives me crazy sometimes."

_Sounds just like Sammy._

The corner of his mouth lifted again.

"She's in trouble, isn't she."

Dean raised his eyes and locked them with hers, feeling the smile slowly melt away from his face. _Yeah_, he wanted to say, _she is._ "We won't really know 'til we get out there."

"Are you going tonight?"

_Bobby_ wanted them to wait until morning, give themselves a few more hours to rest up and get themselves together…_Sam_ would follow Dean's lead…and _Dean_ would've already been in the car if it had been possible.

"Yeah," he said seriously, honestly. "we're goin' tonight."

"I wanna come with you."

"No—"

"I can't just sit here and wait." Her eyes narrowed as she leaned forward, resting her arms on her crossed legs. "This is my sister."

_Oh jeez._

He sighed, lowering himself slowly onto the edge of his own bed. "Trust me, Cheyanne, I hear you." He leaned a little closer. "I'd wanna go too, if I was you. But if Julie _is_ in trouble, it's better if you stay here—"

"Why?"

"'Cause she'll kick my ass if I let you anywhere near this."

"You talk as if you know her."

The skin of Dean's cheek started to tingle from the phantom feeling of her fingertips and he blinked, trying to clear the fog.

"Well…I kinda do."

"How?"

"It's sort of a long story."

Her brow furrowed again. "What's your name?"

"Dean—" He motioned towards the hallway where he'd come from. "My brother's Sam."

"Dean and Sam?"

"Winchester."

"Dean and Sam _Winchester_." Cheyanne seemed to ponder that for a second before her brow smoothed out, her eyes immediately going back to Dean's face. "She talked about you. Julie did."

"She did?"

"Not a lot, but every once in a while."

Dean cleared his throat. "Yeah, our dads used to hunt together."

"She told me once about a banshee in Ohio?"

He couldn't help it, he chuckled. "Yeah, your sister and me…we were fourteen."

"And you ran into a tree, right?"

"Somethin' like that." His smile grew when she let out a tiny snort. "We were with your dad and mine. Banshee came from around a corner, scared the hell outta me. Took off running."

"Right into a tree."

Dean bobbed his head. "Yep."

"Smooth."

"Yeah, your sister thought so, too. Cut my forehead. She gave me the prettiest set of stitches I've ever had."

Cheyanne smiled.

And _that_ was like Julie, too.

* * *

The creak of hinges as Dean pushed closed the Impala's back door acted as a balm for his soul. It was reassuring and comforting; a reminder that he was alright, and more importantly, that _Sam_ was alright. Everything was as it should be. At least for now.

Jesus _Christ_, his shoulder hurt like a bitch.

He rounded the back end of the car and joined Sam and Bobby on the passenger side, letting out a breath.

"There's an old warehouse at the intersection of Court and Mannston streets." Bobby told them both quietly. "I've used it once or twice. Still vacant, checked it out this morning. Plenty of space for you to lay down a Devil's Trap."

"You think we'll need one?"

"I know this girl. She wouldn't leave her sister alone for this long, not without callin' and checkin' on her." Sam nodded in response while Bobby sighed again. "Dean was right earlier, somethin' happened. I'd bet on it."

"But you said she wears an anti-possession charm?"

Dean shook his head, "She gave it to Cheyanne. The kid was wearin' two."

Bobby blinked.

"You're kiddin'."

"Wish I was, noticed it when I was upstairs. Julie probably thought it'd keep Cheyanne safe—two charms, double the protection."

Sam frowned. "Is that possible?"

"I guess it _could_ be, with some of the lower-levels. But with the higher ups? Not a chance."

Dean directed his gaze down to the still muddied driveway.

There was still rain in the air; an electrical charge that only came with approaching or lingering thunderstorms. It was nearly three o'clock in the morning and the expression on Bobby's face was as obvious as anything—_stay until sunrise, sleep, then head out first thing._

Dean shook his head again. "We're goin' now."

"Dean," he took a step closer and rested a hand pointedly on Dean's injured shoulder; it was more shock than anything else that caused the younger man to hiss and glare, pulling away from Bobby's touch. "You're tired and you're hurtin'. How much good do you think you boys are gonna do, worn out as you are?"

Dean still glared. "Guess we're gonna find out."

"Dean?"

Sam's foot pawed at the ground uncertainly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Maybe Bobby's right, man." Dean opened his mouth to talk but Sam beat him to it. "Look, I know you wanna go and deal with this, I don't blame you. But deny it as much as you want, you're not playing at a hundred—I'm not either. Waiting until morning isn't gonna change anything."

Deep down inside, Dean knew that his little brother was right.

The drive to Bobby's the day before had taken a lot out of him and he wasn't even going to _try _to swindle himself into believing that the trek to Gettysburg wouldn't completely drain whatever he had left in his tank. But he was angry, angsty and impatient as hell—he wouldn't be able to wait until sunrise, he'd lose it.

Maybe it was because he couldn't go jobless for longer than twenty-four hours without cabin fever setting in.

Or maybe it was the fact that there was an eighteen year old girl without her older sister.

_Or_ maybe it was because it was Julie.

He didn't really know the real reason behind his irrational need to get in the car _right then_. All he knew was that the reason existed, it was there…and that it would drive him insane if he swallowed it.

Locking eyes with Sam, he spoke quietly, "I can't, Sammy."

_Please._

The kid looked at him for the shortest instant but didn't question it, didn't ask him to explain it or justify anything. Dean had pulled him out of his comfy chair by the fireplace and was practically _forcing_ him to slinky himself back into the passenger seat of the Impala…to embark on a two hour drive South…for a girl that Sam couldn't even remember.

But eventually, Sam nodded.

And Dean could've grabbed him and hugged him.

"You're hell-bent on gettin' yourself killed, aren't you?"

"And send myself downstairs ahead of schedule?" Dean smirked cheekily. "Come on, Bobby. Have a little faith."

Bobby somehow seemed to narrow his eyes and raise his eyebrows at the same time. "Oh, I got plenty. I just know you too well, that's all."

The three men exchanged a quick but heartfelt goodbye before each brother headed towards their respective side of the car.

Before sliding into the driver's seat, Dean for some reason felt the draw to look upwards—and there, in the bright window of what was usually their bedroom, sat Cheyanne.

For someone who was just shy of twenty years old, Cheyanne Connor seemed remarkably small; and for a girl that had been raised by hunters to _be_ a hunter, she was as fragile as they came. He'd only needed to spend a minute with her to see that, it was as plain as day.

She still had an innocence to her that Dean knew her older sister had been protecting and coveting since before the death of their parents.

Much like he'd tried to do with his _own_ kid sibling.

In the hunting world, innocence was nearly impossible to come by and Dean couldn't help but feel a wave of affection for the eighteen year old girl watching them from the upstairs window.

* * *

"Ok, so you wanna tell me what's going on in your head?"

The headlights of an approaching vehicle flashed across Dean's trained eyes and he settled further into his seat. "What do you mean?"

"What do I _mean_? I mean this…sudden and unexpected journey into the South Dakota wilderness."

"Just another job, Sammy."

Sam snorted. "I can't believe you just said that."

"Why?"

"Y'know, I've been thinking about it ever since Cheyanne showed up? I remember them more than I thought I did. Julie's dad caught you two together. That's why the contact stopped, right?"

It still poked and prodded at Dean's temper, even all those years later.

It was something he'd tried to forget, the memory of Jake Connor's face when he'd caught Dean and his oldest daughter together. They hadn't been doing anything besides sitting together on an old picnic table directly outside their shared motel; just talking, holding hands and sharing the occasional kiss or smile. Upon discovering them, Connor had packed up his family and thrown them all into their station wagon, shouting that neither of his daughters would _ever_ be with a hunter. _"They deserve better,"_ he'd said.

He remembered his dad coming up behind him and little Sammy clinging to his side as he'd stood and watched the Connor family's exodus; a livid Jake behind the wheel and Julie in the backseat, her head resting against the window as the car had pulled away.

Now that he was older, Dean understood.

Julie _did_ deserve better. She deserved a home, a permanent address, with furniture and neighbours and little nappy-headed kids playing and laughing in the living room. She deserved everything that Dean himself had never been destined to have and would never have been able to give her.

And even with all the one night stands he'd had, all the completely pointless and short-lived relationships…Julie Connor topped the very, _very _short list of girls that fell under the banner of _one that got away_, and she'd been on that list since he was fifteen.

He'd simply trained himself not to think of her.

"I remember how mad he was. Him and dad shouting at each other."

"It was a long time ago." Dean forced the words out and tried to sound casual, nonchalant. And because he'd perfected the act, it sounded exactly as he'd intended it to—cool and laid back, as if the memory hadn't been grating on his nerves for hours. "Never woulda gone anywhere anyway, dude, we were kids."

"You really believe that?"

"Yeah, I do. What, her and me end up the Ward and June of the hunting world?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"Not Ward and June, no. But maybe Bonnie and Clyde."

"We're not talkin' about this—" He reached down to the stereo, switching it on. "You're bein' an ass."

The opening notes of Zeppelin's _Heartbreaker_ blasted through the car's speakers for about two seconds before Sam laughed and switched it off again. "Relax, dude, I was joking."

Dean didn't say a word.

A small silence fell in the car where the _only_ sound was that of the Impala's engine, rumbling and growling just as she always did. Dean's fingers tightened slightly around the steering wheel and he sighed, taking a quick glance in the rear-view mirror.

As always, it was Sammy that broke the silence.

"You think Julie's alright?"

Dean's somewhat clipped response startled even himself.

"I dunno. I hope so."

"Do we have a plan? I mean, how are we going to do this?"

"Same as always, I guess. Try to track her down; if we find her safe then we take out the demon and book back to Bobby's."

Sam's voice was gentle.

"And…if we _don't_ find her safe?"

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel again.

"Then we hit that warehouse and put down a Devil's Trap."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam nod his head before turning to look out his window.

_And hope that _this_ possession works out better than the last one._

The Impala crossed into Gettysburg, South Dakota just after four-thirty that morning, bringing with it the horrendous storms that had been hovering over Singer Salvage since just before midnight. A drive which would usually take two hours had taken Dean just an hour and a half, the weather having cleared all other traffic on the quiet back roads between Aberdeen and Gettysburg.

They'd found out from Cheyanne that the two sisters had been staying at the Sage Motel which was one of only two places to stay in the small town, and they were relieved to see the vacancy sign lit up and flashing when they pulled into the parking lot.

A small beam of light appeared suddenly in the passenger seat and Dean glanced over, watching as Sam used his small flashlight to scan over Julie's notes. After a second, he said, "They were staying in room number ten, and if Julie went off to hunt and never came back and Cheyanne just booked it…hopefully no one's been in there."

Dean didn't bother saying out loud how much he was hoping they forced their way in and found Julie asleep or seated at the table reading.

There was no _point_ in saying it. Sam probably already knew what he was thinking anyway.

He pulled into the parking spot closest to room number ten and killed the engine, taking a quick glance over at the motel office. There was a light on inside but no one was peeking out to take a look and Dean felt himself relax just slightly.

There was a light rain falling against the windshield of the car and when the brothers stepped out, Dean felt a shiver travel up his back underneath the leather of his jacket. Sam stepped up onto the walkway and Dean followed his lead, the two making their way down the block of rooms to room number ten. Dean immediately tried the door, unsurprisingly finding it locked.

As if they'd done it a thousand times, Dean turned his back to the door and kept watch while Sammy knelt down just behind him, pulling his well-used lock pick from an inside pocket of his coat. When the lock clicked open mere seconds later they both went inside quickly, Sam pushing the door closed behind them.

Turning to look at the room, Dean sighed and pulled his hands from his jacket pockets.

Two double beds, the one closest to the door had a dark blue duffel bag sitting down near the footboard…the furthest one away was unmade, the covers twisted in a way only a teenager could manage. The curtains were pulled closed and the small lamp in between the beds had been left on. The bathroom door was closed.

"Looks like no one's been in here since Cheyanne left."

Dean nodded, still looking around closely. There was no threat in the room, hell, he'd known that the second they'd opened the door. But the room was _cold_…unfriendly; as if something _had_ been in there and had left a chill behind.

He walked into the main room slowly, sending out a mental message to his brother not to move. Sam obeyed and stayed by the door, completely still, as Dean took a look around.

When she'd cleared out Cheyanne had grabbed most of her sister's notes as well as her own duffel bag but there were newspaper clippings pinned to various walls, stacks of research books on almost every surface. It was a typical hunter's motel room—only neater and with a _definite_ feminine touch. A small pair of women's jeans thrown across the end of what Dean knew had been Julie's bed…a hair brush and a plain brown clip sitting on the bedside table…women's deodorant and two pairs of women's sneakers.

Dean headed towards the small wooden dining table and started sorting through the research texts, feeling Sam approach on his right side. "I don't know, Sammy."

"No?"

He moved one of the enormous but familiar books across the surface of the table and spotted it immediately.

_Sulphur._

The even more familiar substance was sitting precariously on the very edge of the table and Dean narrowed his eyes, looking at it closely as he swiped some onto the tip of his finger. "The demon's been here." His voice was quiet, hard. "If it's riding Julie, it came back to this room."

"For what? Looking for little sister?"

Dean didn't say anything. He merely rubbed his fingers together in an effort to get rid of the grittiness.

It was the demon he was feeling—his skin was tingling and the fine hairs on the back of his neck were standing up. His entire body was like an EMF meter and his instincts were spiking.

"What are you thinking?"

Sam's voice broke through quietly, uncertainly, as if worried he was interrupting or throwing off Dean's thought process. He glanced at the kid over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes again, feeling strangely frustrated.

"This doesn't feel right." He refocused on the sulphur. "If this son of a bitch took Julie, it took her for a reason."

"A reason _other_ than simply needing a meat suit?"

_All I had to hold on to…was that I would climb out one day._

_And then I was gonna torture you._

_Nice and slow._

_Like pulling the wings off an insect._

Dean forced himself to swallow hard, the memory still smarting even over a year later. "If a demon's being hunted, it won't take over the person hunting it unless it's got a reason."

"What kind of reason?"

"We're talkin' about demons, Sammy. Any reason'll work."

Softly, Sam sad, "Maybe this demon is to the Connors what Meg was to us?"

"Yeah, maybe."

Despite the fact that the room was a hunter's room through and through—spare clothes, spare shoes, books, newspaper articles—Dean's keen eyes caught something missing. "Cell phones." He glanced over his shoulder at Sam. "Cheyanne had hers. I bet wherever Julie is, she's got hers, too."

"She would've taken it when she left."

"She left Cheyanne here, yeah, she would've taken it."

Letting out a breath, Dean nodded back towards the door. _Come on, let's get outta here._

Sam simply nodded and followed his big brother back out to the car, closing the room door behind him and ensuring that it was locked.

* * *

"_605-229-8565."_

"Yeah?"

"_Far as I know, she's had that number for about six months."_

Dean held his cell phone in the crook of his shoulder as he wrote down the phone number, the diner napkin he was using resting on his thigh. "Thanks Bobby."

There was a pause on the line, then, "_What did you see?"_

Sam slid into the passenger seat and Dean glanced at him quickly, clearing his throat. "Uh, clothes, research…sulphur."

"_How much?"_

"Enough."

A bag of peanut M&M's suddenly landed in his lap and he looked over at Sam again, who was smiling as he cracked open his bottled water.

"_So what now?"_

"What was the address of that warehouse you were tellin' us about?"

"_Court and Mannston Streets. Right there at the intersection. Can't miss it."_

He wrote down the address and then handed the napkin over to Sam who took it and studied it carefully.

The small gas station was bustling around them and the early morning sun was shining in through the open driver's window. The Impala sat off to the far side of the parking lot in an effort to avoid the seemingly constant flow of traffic that was coming in and out; Gettysburg residents on their way to work just before eight o'clock.

The early birds weren't Dean's crowd. They were more Sam's.

"We'll call you when we figure out what's goin' on."

He could picture Bobby nodding in his mind's eye. _"You two watch yourselves out there."_

Dean took hold of his cell phone and snapped it closed, picking up the bag of candy with a raised eyebrow. "Breakfast?"

"What, you don't want them?"

"Hey, now, I never said _that_."

The corner of Sam's mouth lifted, his eyes still on the napkin. "Breakfast of champions, Dean."

"Yeah, and it's only taken me _twenty_ _years_ to get you to say that."

Sam folded the napkin in half and exhaled, squinting in the sunlight. "So what? Devil's Trap arts and crafts?"

Dean popped a candy into his mouth before reaching down and starting the car, the Impala's rumble joining the rest of the noise that filled the parking lot.

* * *

The misty cloud of black spray paint came directly at his head and he waved a hand at it, making a face. "Still the best artist I've ever seen, Sammy."

Sam smiled, setting the spray can down onto the cement floor. "Practice makes perfect."

The Devil's Trap was nearly eight feet across and glistened only slightly in the dim lighting. Sam sighed, swiping his wrist across his forehead. "Do we know if Julie's still in town? I mean, if the demon's taken her over whose to say she hasn't moved on already?"

Dean pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his jeans. "Guess we're gonna find out."

_605-229-8565_

Holding the phone to his ear, Dean couldn't help but feel anxious. So anxious, in fact, that he started counting the rings.

From his crouched position down on the floor, Sam was watching him intently—eyes pinched, jaw set, concern oozing from practically every inch of him.

Dean locked eyes with him when someone picked up the other end of the line.

"_Dean?"_

It was a familiar voice—older, a little deeper…but the same voice he remembered from thirteen years before.

He felt goosebumps erupt on his arms.

"Julie?"

The voice let out a light laugh_. "Not quite."_

Still looking at his brother, Dean nodded his head; Sam's shoulders slumped while his eyes seemed to flash.

"_I was wondering when you and your sidekick would get here, Dean. Girl from your past. It's not really like you to be all…sentimental."_

"And how would you know what I'm like?"

Sam frowned.

"_Come on now, we all know you."_ The demon sighed. "_Kinda hard not to. You two are always sticking your noses where they don't belong."_

Dean pushed himself from his lean against the far wall and tightened his grip on his cell phone, tight enough to hear the plastic creak.

"_But then, you never stuck your nose _anywhere_ when it came to Julie Connor…did you? Too young? Wrong place? Wrong time?"_

"That's none of your damn business."

"_But I see it all, Dean—every memory she has of you. And I gotta admit, based on your reputation? I was expecting something a little racier."_

"Where the hell are you?"

The snarl broke out of him before he could even think of holding it in and the demon laughed again, Julie's light and cheerful voice snaking it's way underneath his rage. "_Oh I'm around. I know that you and Sammy were all worried I'd left Gettysburg, but I'm still here. I couldn't pass up the chance to meet you boys."_

"That so?"

"_Oh yeah. I mean, I know that you're gonna be moving into the hellfire frat house in a couple months but I'm just far too impatient."_

"You couldn't just wait to see me in hell?" Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw his brother tear his eyes away and focus on the cement floor, his eyes dull and his shoulders slumping even more than they had been. He swallowed hard. "You go after Julie?"

"_Well, in all fairness, it was actually Julie that came after me. She'd been looking for me for quite some time."_

"And why's that?"

"_Surely you know? How obsessive someone can get when they're tracking the thing that killed their family?"_

Dean stopped in his tracks and felt his eyes narrow. Sam looked up at Dean's change in demeanour and they once again locked eyes. "Jake and Abigail?"

Sam's eyes widened.

"_I know I don't have to tell you how it feels to finally get revenge,"_ Her voice changed—it lowered an octave, and it was so unlike the happy-go-lucky girl that Dean remembered, it made him feel ill. "_To watch the light go out in the eyes of someone that's screwed you over. It's liberating. Isn't that how you felt when you finally went face-to-face with Azazel in that cemetery?"_

"Yeah," he snarled again, "right before I blew his brains out."

"_Yeah, I heard all about that. Must've been one hell of a weight off your shoulders, huh? Talk about fillin' daddy's shoes."_

"Listen to me, you black-eyed skank." Dean turned away from his brother and lowered his voice. "I want Julie Connor back. You wanna meet me, come and meet me. I'm not hard to find."

"_And get stuck in that massive trap that little Sammy just painted on the cement floor? I don't think so."_

Dean's eyes immediately shot to the far door; it appeared closed and untouched. He then looked upwards towards the ceiling, checking for holes or gaps in the aluminum sheeting, anything large enough for someone to look through.

There was nothing.

"Where are you?"

"_You and Sammy should get some rest, Dean. You're not gonna do much good if you're both fallin' asleep."_

The line went dead and Dean had to let out a few long breaths in order to calm his boiling blood. Sam had stood from his crouch and approached slowly, his face pinched again. "What's going on?"

* * *

"So you're saying that this demon is the one who caused the Connors' car accident?"

Dean leaned back against the headboard of his bed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "That's what it said."

Room number fifteen of the Sage Motel was where the Winchester brothers had set up their base camp—Dean not wasting any time in removing his jacket and boots before settling onto the surprisingly plushy bedspread.

Sam was sitting at the table, frowning.

"And now what? It's taken over Julie for fun?"

"Far as I'm concerned? It took over Julie for two reasons—one, 'cause it ganked her parents and, yeah, thought it'd be fun…and two, 'cause it knew we'd come running."

"What's it want _us_ for?"

Dean snorted. "Come on, Sammy. Demons have been screwin' with us for years, why _wouldn't_ it want us?"

"Yeah, I hear you. But you said that the last time we saw the Connors, you were fifteen? Jake and Abigail Connor died, what…_six_ years ago? How did the demon make the connection with us?"

"Julie and Cheyanne show up on a hunt, demon recognizes them, does a little digging…doesn't take much."

"You think Julie knew that it was this demon that killed her parents?"

Dean thought back to a couple days just shy of his fourteenth birthday.

It was one of the only times in Dean's memory that the Winchesters and the Connors had descended down on Singer Salvage at the same time—Jake and Abigail in the upstairs bedroom, John Winchester on the couch in the living room…and the kids in the library; Cheyanne and Julie on the sofa, Dean and Sam on a make-shift bed by the fire place.

Early morning sessions reading lore and going over research books.

Target practice back behind the house—Julie matching every one of Dean's hits to the target, shot for shot.

Swallowing, Dean nodded. "Yeah," he said. "She knew."

"And Cheyanne knows nothing about it?"

"She was lookin' after her little sister. The less pain Cheyanne goes through, the better it is."

Sam sighed, "The more pain Julie goes through _alone_."

It was because Dean knew his little brother so well that he heard it, quietly, hiding in between the lines. Making himself sit a little straighter, he said, "Come on and say it, Sammy."

Sam blinked, "Say what?"

"You know what."

The two stared at each other for a second and it was Sam that looked away first, letting out a breath.

Dean had always been the one to win staring contests in the Winchester universe, since they'd been kids. It wasn't really surprising that that hadn't changed over the years…hell, he'd lost the height advantage two milliseconds after Sam hit puberty, he needed to keep _something._

After a moment Sam shook his head. "You remember that time…I'd just turned seven? We were staying in that motel outside Jarvis?"

A careful nod. "Yeah, I remember."

"I got it in my head that I wanted to dig to China. Straight shot, figured I'd be back before dad even realized I was gone."

Dean couldn't help but smile.

"Yeah. Found you knee deep in a pile of muck in behind the building."

"Dad came back, saw how filthy I was and flipped out. Told me I wasn't allowed to leave the room until he finished the job."

"You asked me to go out and dig without you. You said that if you couldn't go, you wanted _me_ to go and bring you back a present."

Sam seemed to swallow hard, his voice strained as he continued. "Do you remember what you told me when I asked you to do that?"

"You'd been grounded. I told you that I didn't wanna go to China if I couldn't take you with me."

"Well, I can't go to Hell with you. You still thinkin' you wanna go _there_?"

_Whoa. Stop and rewind._

Dean's memory of his mud-covered China-bound little brother came to a screeching halt and he blinked, intertwining his fingers and moving to rest his hands on his stomach.

It always came down to that.

The visions.

The final order.

The death.

And the deal.

…a series of events that covered the most recent pages of the Winchester history book, margin to margin.

Dean couldn't force himself to feel badly about it. After twenty-eight years of doing things for other people; putting himself in harm's way, sweating, bleeding…he'd finally made a decision to do something for himself.

To someone unfamiliar with their world it would appear that he'd made the deal for _Sammy_; to give the kid a chance at a life, go back to school, get married to a beautiful woman and have a bunch of hopelessly adorable geeks just like him. And while that would seem like the most rational method to Dean's madness, that unfamiliar someone would be wrong.

Truth was? Dean had made that deal for _himself_.

After hunting full-time for almost twenty years, Dean knew the truth. In their world—monsters, hunters, salt and shadows—it was the ones left behind that suffered the most. In their world, there were a thousand and one things _worse_ than death and _loneliness _was one of them.

He could handle almost anything.

He _couldn't_ handle being alone.

"We really gonna talk about this now?"

Sam sighed, looking anywhere but at his older brother. A silence was now hanging over them, thick and toxic, and Dean immediately wished it wasn't there. Fighting with Sam under normal circumstances was hard enough, but fighting with him when he had such little time left…

Dean swallowed hard and shifted his legs somewhat restlessly. "Let's just get through this, man, ok?"

"But Dean—"

"Sam."

The two finally locked eyes again; one set impossibly sad, the other impossibly determined.

Something inside the younger man's hazels seemed to dim and he finally nodded, figuratively _bowing down_ to an older brother's authority.

* * *

Dean was brought back to consciousness by the incessant, spine-shaking sound of a phone ringing.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep; actually, he'd propped himself up against the headboard of his bed in a position that would seem somewhat inhuman to a normal person in hopes of staying awake. But after only a few minutes his fatigued body had apparently won out. He hadn't even been aware of it when his eyes had drifted closed, throwing him into a restless and uneasy sleep.

Wincing at the cramps in his neck he forced himself to sit up and search blindly for his cell phone.

The bed sheets beside him.

The surface of the nightstand.

His fingers swiped across something solid and there was a quiet _thud_ against the carpeted floor, the obnoxious ringing now screaming up at him from two feet below.

Dean managed to hold in the groan as he reached down, flipping the phone open and hitting the _talk_ button without even opening his eyes. "Hello."

His voice was about two octaves lower than it usually was and he tried desperately to clear the fog in his mind.

The voice that greeted him, however, bolted him right into alertness.

"_Too late for the mighty hunters?"_

Dean's eyes shot open and he rocketed into a sitting position, immediately looking over at his still snoozing little brother.

Then to the alarm clock.

_2:12am._

"Just following your advice."

"_Yeah, I'm sure. I'm surprised actually. I expected you two meat-heads to come charging after me when you first hit town; didn't think you'd stop and take a nap first."_

Dean swallowed hard, forcing his anger back down into his stomach. "Yeah, well."

"_But then you and Sammy aren't all there, are you? Both beaten, tired…fretting about the cheque you're gonna have to cash in a couple months?"_

With the phone pressed securely against his ear Dean aimed his eyes once again at Sam's unconscious form and slowly stood from his bed, crossing the room quickly and letting himself outside.

It just reinforced the fact that Dean was the older brother. He'd spoken over the phone, stood up, crossed the room and gone outside…all without Sam stirring.

Sam couldn't even _roll over_ without Dean startling awake.

And the bitch was _still_ talking.

"_So tell me, how _are_ you coping with everything, Dean?"_ She paused for a moment; his fuse shortened. "_You two say your goodbyes yet?"_

"Y'know, I gotta be honest; as much as I love this whole "jerkin' me off over the phone", thing? I really don't." A breeze blew over him but he didn't notice. He was suddenly too angry. "How about I come find you?"

"_26 Logan Avenue."_

Dean blinked, eyes settling on the gleaming body of the Impala only a few feet away. "What?"

The demon gave a longsuffering sigh.

"_26 Logan Avenue. I'm at _that_ house _right_ now."_

"Right, and you're just gonna tell me where you are?"

"_Why not? You don't stand a chance at finding me on your own, and like you, I have a schedule I have to keep."_

"That so?"

"_Yes. So…here's how it's gonna go. You come out to that address _on your own_ and we'll have a talk."_

Dean didn't even hesitate.

Sam stays behind? Asleep? Healing? Safe and sound?

Yeah, ok.

"When?"

"_Like…as soon as possible. Quickly. Now."_

"I'm on my way."

He didn't expect the demon to respond so he snapped his phone closed and let out a breath, watching it cloud in front of his face.

When he re-entered the room seconds later, Sam was still asleep and had his right arm thrown haphazardly across his face. There was some light snoring but no signs at all that the kid had been disturbed. Dean watched him for a second before slipping on his hiking boots and leather jacket, the Impala's keys already buried down in the right pocket.

The two brothers had only brought Dean's Beretta, the Colt, and Sam's favourite sawed-off in from the car's trunk, hoping to spend some of their time waiting getting the three well-used weapons clean. But very much out of his character, Dean had fallen asleep before the thought had even re-entered into his mind.

He stashed the old revolver in the waistband of his jeans hiding just under his jacket, double-checked that he had his cell phone and scrawled a two sentence note for Sam which he propped up against the alarm clock.

_Got the call and I'm taking care of it. _

_Be back soon, don't even think of leaving._

_2:20_

With one last look at the Sammy-shaped lump on the far bed and after double-checking the salt lines, Dean headed out the door and locked it securely behind him.

* * *

_The fire was slowly dying in the grate and Dean pulled the unzipped sleeping bag that he and Sam were using as a blanket up closer to his shoulders. _

_As nine year old Sam was lying right beside him, pressed against his back and Dean sighed, looking to make sure that the squirt had enough blanket to keep him warm._

_Bobby Singer's library was chilly, the unseasonably cold air seeming to press in on them from all sides. The fire though which the older hunter had been tending to all night had helped up until all the adults had gone to bed._

_Dean was just too lazy and far too comfortable to get up and look after it. _

_Besides, Sam wasn't shivering…and the girls up on the couch were snuggled together like human burritos. _

_Speaking of girls…_

_Shifting slightly so he could look up towards the sofa, Dean whispered, "Jewel?" The oldest Connor girl stirred slightly so he tried again, spurred on. "Jewel? You awake?"_

_A pair of slim fingers curled over the edge of the girls' sleeping bag and two sleepy blue eyes peered out and down at him. She blinked. "What?"_

"_I can't sleep."_

_Julie blinked again. "Cold?"_

"_Nah, just can't sleep."_

_Cheyanne, who had just turned three only a couple of days before, let out a small whine and cuddled closer to her big sister under the blankets; he watched Julie shift slightly to make room for her. _

_Under normal circumstances the little girl would've been staying with her parents upstairs in the spare bedroom. But when the Connors had tried to separate Cheyanne from her older sister, all hell had broken loose; crying, shrieking, tears…it had been a temper tantrum for the ages._

_Needless to say, the consensus had been to let the little monster stay downstairs. _

"_Just close your eyes. Count sheep."_

_He looked up at her. "Sheep? No. Hey, how about fire trucks… or army tanks?"_

_She frowned and whispered, "What's wrong with sheep?"_

"_They stink." _

_He smiled to himself as she stifled a tired giggle._

The cool air blew across the skin at the back of his neck and he felt all the fine hairs stand up on end. He climbed the front steps of 26 Logan Avenue slowly and cautiously, the Colt held tightly in his hand and about three bottles of holy water stashed wherever they would fit; his jacket pockets, as well as stuck in the back waistband of his jeans where the gun had originally been.

Their book of exorcisms was also inside his jacket, just in case he was presented with an opportunity.

He had no spray paint; just a black magic marker that he'd found stuffed in the glove box of the Impala at the last minute. It wasn't the most ideal medium for drawing a devil's trap but he would make it work.

The very second the sole of his boot touched down on the wooden porch, the front door slowly creaked open on un-oiled hinges; Dean froze and raised his gun to eye-level, considering for a moment pulling out his small flashlight. He knew without a doubt that the demon waiting for him inside the house knew already that he was there, but why make things easier for the bitch if he could help it?

He moved inside slowly allowing his hunter's eyes the time to adjust to the darkness. His steps were silent and he was at the peak of his alertness; every creak of the old wooden floor, every groan of the pipes, every bang as the old shutters outside blew back and forth in the night wind.

_Dean._

He froze again, coming to a stop just at the bottom of the staircase to the top floor.

The voice was feminine and familiar and a shiver went right up his spine under his leather jacket. The grip on his gun tightened instinctively and he swallowed.

_This way, Dean._

He looked at the staircase.

_Upstairs._

"Upstairs." He sighed and somewhat reluctantly followed the instructions, taking the stairs slowly. When he reached the upstairs landing he pulled his flashlight and switched it on, bathing the darkened hallway with the single beam of light.

"There you are."

The voice came from the end of the hallway and Dean snapped his head up, aiming the light towards the figure only feet away from him.

And there she stood. The fifteen year old he remembered.

Only she wasn't fifteen.

Her honey-coloured hair was long, about halfway down her back if he guessed. He couldn't make out her eyes in the darkness but he was relieved to see that her body looked relatively unharmed; no blood, no holes, no gaping cuts. Nothing that would require a doctor anyway.

He couldn't help but notice that she'd grown up well—unbelievably gorgeous, Julie was—at about 5'7" with curves in all the right places. Dark jeans, dark shirt and a dark leather jacket.

He could feel himself start to react being so close to her again but reminded himself loudly that he needed to stay focused. It _wasn't_ Julie.

Not yet, anyway.

"Here I am." He took a step forward. "You wanna tell me what I'm doin' here?"

The corner of her mouth lifted up in a smirk. "You came to hunt a demon, didn't you?"

"That's the plan."

"Right, because you want _Jewel_ back?"

Dean stiffened against his will at the nickname and adjusted his grip on his gun again.

"Oh, please don't tell me you're as possessive over _that_ little nickname as you are _Sammy_." She laughed and motioned to his raised gun. "And you can put that away, I know you're not going to use it."

"What makes you so sure?"

The words were bravado, nothing more.

Taking a shot at Julie Connor would be almost as difficult as taking a shot at Sammy.

Not quite, but almost.

The demon's smirk grew. "Come on now, Dean. You won't hurt her. I can see inside your head, you know—" She pressed a finger to her own temple. "Right in _here_. Don't kid yourself."

Taking one last look at him, she melted into the darkness of one of the rooms and her disembodied chuckle echoed down the hallway to where he was standing.

It took a tremendous effort but Dean lowered his gun, not putting it away but holding it loosely in his hand. He wouldn't use it if he didn't have to—he had plenty of holy water—but he _would_ use it if he had no other choice.

At least that's what he was telling himself.

The room the demon had gone into looked as if it was once an office of some kind. There was a truly enormous and decrepit old desk and the demon was leaning back against it, her arms crossed over her chest.

As he entered the room her eyes tracked his every move, and against his character, he felt somewhat self-conscious. Giving himself a mental shake, he said, "Ok, so I'm here." Reaching into his jacket, he pulled a bottle of holy water into view; she focused on it and something shifted in her eyes—in _Julie's_ blue eyes. "You wanna tell me why I'm not beatin' you down and sendin' you back to hell right now?"

"Because I wanna talk." After a second, she looked back up to his face. "Just you. No Sammy."

"Don't call him that. And you wanna talk about what?"

"Where you're going in a couple months."

Dean felt his eyes narrow and he glared ferociously across the room. "I came for the girl. That's it—"

She spoke over him. "No, you came here for something else. Otherwise I'd be tied to a chair."

As much as it annoyed him, he couldn't argue with that.

The bitch would be tied to a chair and drenched from head to toe in holy water.

And _Dean_ would be halfway through Sam's favourite exorcism.

He took a few steps to his right and pointedly set the old gun down onto an end table. He pulled his eyes from the intricate carvings along the handle and looked up at the demon, telling it with his eyes that he'd be able to grab it and fire it in less than three seconds if he had to. "You got five minutes."

The demon chuckled. "The mighty Dean Winchester is giving _me_ five minutes? A demon? It's unheard of."

He barked, "Four minutes, fifty seconds."

"The deal you made."

"What about it?"

"You're trying to find a way out."

It was a statement…not a question.

He shifted slightly and watched her through suspicious eyes.

"Don't worry, I won't go running off to tattle on you; me and the Crossroads demon aren't exactly chummy."

"Well, good, 'cause she's dead."

Her head tilted to the side and it was no un-like the Julie that Dean remembered it was disturbing.

"That your handy work?"

"No, it was Sam's. Three minutes."

There was a sudden buzzing against Dean's right hip and he immediately knew that back at the motel Sam had woken up, found the note and had promptly started flipping out. As distracting as the vibrating cell phone was, he tried to push it from his mind.

If the demon noticed, it didn't say so.

"You're afraid of what'll happen once you're gone and Sam's on his own. Vulnerable, brother-less…bent on revenge?" She pushed away from the desk. "You've already spoken to one demon, in Ohio right? Sam's the new big kahuna of Azazel's army. How long do you think he'll last against _that_ on his own?"

Dean smiled a patronizing smile, "Y'know, if I didn't know any better? I'd say you actually cared."

"I wouldn't smile about it if I were you."

"And why's that?"

"If you knew what _I_ know?" She shook her head, breathing a laugh. "How all this is gonna end?"

"And you know that _how_?"

"Even demons at the lowest pay grade hear things through the grapevine, Dean."

Tearing his eyes away from her for the shortest second he looked down at the Colt still resting on the end table. He could feel his fingers tightening around a phantom version of the gun and he looked upwards again, feeling anger flash in his own hazels.

He had never been one to ask for favours, preferring to do things on his own until he had absolutely no other choice. And standing there in the dark house, the idea of actually _asking_ the demon possessing his childhood friend for information? It wasn't exactly ringin' his bell.

But it was Sam.

In only a few short months, Dean knew he'd be leaving his most prized possession—the Sasquatch—on his own in a world just _itching_ to make him into what he was supposedly _destined_ to be. Demons, monsters…they were all against them, every minute of every day.

At that point in time, information was all he had.

If Dean couldn't be around to protect Sam with his strength then he'd make damn sure that Sam had the knowledge to protect himself.

Finally, he said, "So…you know what Azazel's endgame is? The celebrity death match in Cold Oak, the visions, the TK…all of it?"

"Dean, if you had the IQ of a raisin you'd be able to see it yourself. You think there's darkness in your brother _now_?" The blue eyes flared. "Give him a couple months without you."

"What, I'm the deal breaker, huh?"

He asked the question _specifically_ to see what the demon would say because he already knew the answer.

Dean had faith in his brother; believed him to be strong and honest, capable of defending himself a good ninety-five percent of the time (according to an overprotective big brother, anyway). But Sam was an affectionate soul and valued his emotional ties with people over everything, _including,_ to Dean's chagrin, his own well-being.

It played out before him just as it had a hundred times since he'd made the deal in the first place.

Dean would be gone; dead, salted and burned.

Sam would be lonely, angry, in pain…and would turn to the wrong people for comfort, would _trust_ the wrong people, because for someone so unbelievably OCD about everything else, Sammy could be incredibly gullible.

Especially when he thought he was doing the right thing.

Just looking into the possessed face, Dean knew that the demon thought the exact same thing. But why this demon cared enough to lure him there and say all this out loud? He had _no_ idea.

Why would the demon that killed Jake and Abigail Connor give a crap about him going to Hell and Sam possibly going dark side?

He must've said the words out loud because the demon said, "I didn't kill _Jake and Abigail_."

The words registered quickly and Dean blinked, frowning, "But you said—"

"To get you here, that's all. I wanted to talk to you and I knew you'd come running if I dangled the Connors in front of you."

"There's no point in lyin', you're goin' to Hell either way."

"I'm not lying." She took a step forward and Dean reached for the Colt, holding it loosely at his side. The demon stopped. "The Connors were in an accident, Dean. That's all. No demons, no monsters…just human error. It _does_ happen from time to time."

"In my world, not all that much."

"Yeah, well—" She shrugged. "So is the life of a Winchester, I guess."

Dean's cell phone had not stopped buzzing and his thoughts couldn't help but travel to Sam.

"Talk to your brother, Dean. Make sure he understands."

He swallowed thickly. "Understands what?"

"That the visions weren't given to him for no reason. Azazel _always_ has a reason."

Julie's head was suddenly thrown back and a tide of black smoke spewed from her mouth; a scream mingled with the sound of rushing air as the demon expelled itself from her body.

Dean took a few steps back and raised a hand instinctively to shield his eyes.

The black cloud shot over and slid through the slightly open window, disappearing into the darkness outside; Julie fell to the floor with a thud, completely unconscious.

All was silent for a moment and Dean merely blinked, eyes going from the window to the girl on the floor.

Getting his wits back, he dropped the Colt and crossed the room, crouching down beside Julie and immediately pressing the tips of his fingers into her neck. It was routine to check the pulse of someone newly freed from possession, to see if the person had somehow managed to survive—some did, most didn't.

Thankfully at that moment Julie's pulse was strong and steady.

Flexing his fingers in sudden nervousness, he ran diagnostics—her shoulders, her arms, her chest, her stomach—looking for wounds or injuries that may have been hidden from him before.

"Jewel, if you can hear me, baby, I promise, I'm not tryin' anything."

He murmured the words quietly, his hands ghosting over her thighs all the way down to her lower legs.

There was no blood, nothing to suggest she'd been injured physically; it bothered him however that she hadn't opened her eyes yet.

He got to his feet and took a quick look around the room, grabbing the Colt and re-stashing it back in the waistband of his jeans. And then as carefully as he could he slipped one arm under Julie's knees and the other under the back of her neck, lifting her up off the floor.

In less than two minutes they were in the car, the engine roaring to life and the tires spraying gravel as Dean hit the gas.

* * *

"You just…_let the demon go_?"

Being scolded in whispers by his little brother was the very last thing in the world Dean's nerves needed. He scowled, pulling the covers of his bed up to rest just under Julie's chin. "I didn't _let it go_, Sam. It smoked out."

"But that's _it_? I mean, it calls and goads the hell out of us…you go off _alone_—" A pointed glare. "—and then what? Chats for a few minutes then bails?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"What did it say?"

_You think there's darkness in your brother now? Give him a couple months without you._

For the shortest moment, he considered having the talk right then and there…brother to brother…about what was speeding through Dean's head. The worry, the concern, the _fear_ that he felt at the idea of Sam being alone.

He wouldn't go back on the deal he made for anything but he'd be lying if he said the consequences of making it didn't scare the hell out of him.

But with an unconscious Julie laying there, a panicked Cheyanne back at Bobby's, and a pissed and confused Sam standing before him, it wasn't the time for that talk.

It was a talk that required nothing but the two of them.

He tried to casually shrug his shoulders, "Said it didn't kill the Connors, so that's at least something."

"Really?"

"Used it as a lure. The Connors weren't killed by anything supernatural."

The upset melted from Sam's face and he sighed, plonking down onto the edge of his own bed. "So what?" He motioned to the sleeping Julie. "Just used Julie, too?"

_I wanted to talk to you and I knew you'd come running if I dangled the Connors in front of you._

Dean cleared his throat.

"Just causin' trouble, Sammy. That's what demons do, right? Screw with peoples' heads?"

"I guess," he sighed again, "Just seems like a lot of work for nothing, that's all."

"For nothing?"

"Well, possessing a hunter…riding her for twenty-four hours…calling and prodding at us. You go out there and talk to it about _god knows what_ and then that's it? What was the point of it all?" Sam shrugged. "I dunno."

Dean's trip downstairs, Sam on his own, and the consequences.

Dean hated demons. Hated them with more venom and fervour than anything else they hunted. Taking control of a person, pulling them away from their families, committing murder and abusing the body so much that if and when a demon finally smoked out, it was rare for the host to survive it. He'd lost count of how many possessed people he'd seen with holes in them, signs that what the demon was possessing was nothing more than an empty shell; the person inside already dead and gone.

Demons were cold, calculating and manipulative.

They destroyed and murdered and took advantage of those desperate because they _liked_ it.

Because they found fun in it.

Dean swallowed and slowly nodded when Sam looked up at him. "Yeah, Sammy…I hear you."

It was just before seven in the morning when Sam took the car keys and headed out, his assignment to find somewhere decent to pick up breakfast. Neither brother had really slept much the night before and Dean was hoping that with a good sized meal in his stomach he'd be up for the two hour drive back to Bobby's.

Once the remaining Connors were reunited, Bobby was brought up to speed and he'd spoken with Sam, Dean had decided that they were officially off-duty—they needed to sleep and _god_ they needed to heal. The routine they'd fallen into to tackle one job after another for weeks on end was coming to a grinding halt, by order of a tired and soon-to-be-cranky older brother.

He stood in the bathroom in a pair of jeans, freshly showered and examining the healing cut hiding just up in his hairline. Now that he had his shirt off and he was looking at himself in the light he could see that his previously dislocated shoulder, while still bruised, was looking _somewhat_ better. The bruises were still a nasty looking purple, as were the bruises along his abdomen, but the pain had receded slightly.

That was at least something.

He'd taken a look at Sam earlier that morning and while the younger man had hissed slightly as he'd had his bruised ribs looked at, he claimed that he was alright. _"Bit of a throb,"_ he'd said, "_Nothing I can't handle."_

Dean's eyes settled on a small bruise near his tattoo and he sighed, reaching down for the clean t-shirt he'd placed on the counter by the sink. Wrestling himself into it stretched muscles in his back and it served as a reminder that there was a fine line between pleasure and pain; it hurt like hell but it was one _hell_ of a stretch.

He left the bathroom quietly, his eyes darting over to the bed by the door.

The bed he _hadn't_ slept in the night before.

And nearly crawled out of his skin when he saw a pair of blue eyes staring out at him from under the covers.

For a second all they did was stare at each other. Julie obviously knew who he was because she wasn't screaming or throwing things at him; she sat up slowly, raking her fingers through her long hair and letting out a breath.

Dean swallowed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Are you alright?"

"Where's my sister?"

Newly free from demonic possession and the first words out of her mouth were about her sister.

Dean knew and understood. He was the exact same way.

"She's in Aberdeen with Bobby. She's ok."

Julie rested her head back against the headboard and closed her eyes. He could read the silent expression on her face; relief, a mental _thank god._

"Worryin' about you, but she's ok." He crossed the floor and settled himself down on the edge of Sam's bed, resting his arms on his legs and intertwining his fingers. "How are you feeling?"

"Little sore."

"You probably will be for a couple days. Just gotta take it easy."

She opened her eyes and rolled her head to look at him, their gazes connecting once again. He could feel her studying him, looking at him, as if searching for the teenager she remembered hiding somewhere in the man he'd grown into.

He could see teenager _he _remembered—happy, cheerful…exhausted.

"It's really good to see you, Dean."

His fifteen year old self would've hugged her and maybe tried to steal a kiss, not wanting to be away from her for too long especially after what she'd been through.

But Dean Winchester was far from fifteen.

He was a man that notoriously loved women; meeting them, flirting with them, charming them, and seducing them. Hell, the people he loved most, Sam and Bobby, often teased him about it, making jokes and cackling like fools at the top of their lungs. He was ok with it, he knew it was the truth.

But right there at that moment, he cared more about the person he was sitting with then the fact that he was alone with a beautiful woman and doing _nothing_.

The corner of his mouth quirked up slightly and he nodded, saying quietly, "Yeah, you too."

"Sam?"

"He's here. Went to grab breakfast."

Julie let out a breath and slowly blinked. "You were the last person I expected to show up."

"Well, me and Sam were crashin' at Bobby's when Cheyanne got there and told us what happened." He shrugged his shoulders. "Honestly I'm surprised that _you're_ surprised."

A small chuckle escaped her and she smiled at him. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

A small silence fell over them and Dean directed his gaze down to the carpeted floor, somehow feeling awkward and comfortable at the same time. The curtains were still drawn, Sam having suggested that they keep them closed for when Julie woke up just in case her eyes were over-sensitive.

Even in the darkness Dean could see how glassy they were and silently sent a thank you to his brother wherever the kid was.

"I uh," he cleared his throat. "I checked you over when I first brought you here, y'know, just in case. Didn't find anything. Anything we gotta take care of?"

After a second she shook her head. "No. Mostly just a raging headache."

"I figured. Got Advils if you need 'em." Dean softened his voice and leaned forward. "What happened out there, huh? Hunting a demon without protection, without your charm? What were you thinkin'?"

"It did more good with Cheyanne than with me; at least she made it to Bobby's."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure she would've preferred you comin' back. Kid was scared out of her mind when she showed up at the yard drivin' _your_ car; which, by the way, is the hottest thing I've ever seen. GT 500?"

Julie smiled again. Leave it to Dean to deviate from an important lecture to talk about a car. "Told you one day I'd have one."

"You rebuild her?"

"From the tires up." He couldn't help but smile back at her as she continued. "Found her in a scrap heap a couple years ago down in Tyndall. Called Bobby, he towed her back to the yard. Let me keep her there and I worked on her whenever me and Cheyanne were around." Her smile grew slightly. "Black. Just like the Impala."

"How's she run?"

"Absolutely perfect."

Dean grinned. "Where'd you learn engines? You weren't really into them when I last saw you."

"My dad taught me," she paused and he saw her swallow, "right before he died."

He tore his eyes away from her and looked back down to the carpet, wiping a hand down his face wearily, "Jesus, Julie," he dropped his hand, "Bobby told me. I'm sorry."

Moisture had started pooling in the corners of Julie's eyes and Dean's shoulders fell, wanting nothing more than to reach across the small space between them and grab her hand.

He wasn't much for chick-flick moments or emotional conversations, never really had been. It was true that every once in a while he made exceptions—almost exclusively for Sammy—but something about making an exception at that moment felt right to him.

Yet another thing that was out of character.

Like him, Julie had lost both her parents. And like him, she'd lost both her parents _suddenly._ It was a kind of pain that you couldn't possibly understand until you'd felt it hit right in the center of your chest.

_Ah, the hell with it._

Slowly so not to twinge his now aching midsection he stood from Sam's bed and stepped towards her, settling himself down on the very edge of her mattress. Not too close, just in case he wasn't welcome…and not too far away, his presence hopefully offering her some sort of comfort.

She sniffled and nearly made him slide off the bed and onto the floor when _she_ reached over and grasped _his_ hand in hers, unconsciously starting to play with the silver ring on his finger.

"It's been six years," she started in a watery whisper, "and it still hurts."

"You still got Cheyanne. You raised her right, you know."

"You think so?"

He sent her a tiny smile. "Oh yeah. She's a good kid. Smart."

She snorted, "Yeah. _Too_ smart sometimes."

"Hey, I got one of those too, you know."

"I got an eighteen year old girl with a thirty year old mouth, how about you?"

"A twenty-four year old anal retentive with the mind of a ninety year old."

Julie stared at him for a second before starting to laugh, her head resting against the headboard again. "That doesn't sound like the cute six year old I remember."

Well," Dean smiled, "he's got his moments."

"Yeah. Raised by _you_, I don't doubt it."

The smile on his face was completely genuine and he let out a slow breath, relishing the feeling of lightness that had suddenly descended over him. As the days went by it seemed that those moments between him and Sam, which he secretly cherished more than anything else, were so rare and unexpected that they were over before he completely realized they were happening.

He felt comfortable, relaxed. The only thing missing was the Sasquatch.

It was so close to being an _apple-pie_ moment that under normal circumstances it would've been obnoxious.

"So you made a deal, huh?"

And as easily as that, it was gone.

His head snapped up and his eyes widened, feeling whatever calm he'd had drain out of him as if a plug had been pulled.

It was common for the people who survived possessions to remember things—images, flashes, bits and pieces of conversations. When Sam had been possessed the year before he remembered practically everything…and even a year later it was still haunting him.

It hadn't occurred to Dean back at the house that he'd have to deal with Julie knowing about his deal and the consequences of it. It hadn't occurred to him that one more person would be worrying about it; and he knew that she _would_ worry, even though they hadn't seen in each other in over a decade. It hadn't occurred to him that he'd have to deal with it.

He sighed wearily, "Jewel—"

"Sam died and you made a deal?"

"You gonna tell me you wouldn't have done the same thing?"

She didn't even hesitate. "No, I'm not gonna tell you that. I _know_ I would. What big brother or sister _wouldn't_? But _one year_, Dean."

"We're dealin' with it."

"How?"

"Best we can."

She pushed herself from the headboard and slowly turned in the bed, sitting cross-legged so that she faced him where he sat only a few feet away. "Have you tried anything to reverse it?"

He almost laughed.

"There's no reversing it, Julie. Sam's alive, one year, I'm going."

"What do you mean, _there's no reversing it_? Sam killed the Crossroads demon, ok, but there's gotta be something—"

That time, he _did_ laugh. "Y'know, for someone who's been possessed the last twenty-four hours, you seem pretty focused on me."

"Dean, please be serious."

"I _am_ bein' serious. This is our problem, mine and Sam's. You just take it easy. We're headin' back to Bobby's as soon as you get somethin' to eat." He stood from the bed. "You should call Cheyanne, too; Bobby said she's practically tearin' his house apart."

Julie sighed, "How can you be so calm about this?"

He turned away from her and started towards the small coffee maker on the far counter, wishing he had a shot of whiskey to put in it. "Calm about what?"

"Global warming and the destruction of the o-zone layer."

Smirking, he glanced at her over his shoulder. "You grew into a real smart-ass, you know that?"

"Yeah, maybe, but _you_ haven't changed a bit. Still laughing in the face of danger—"

"Julie," he turned around, leaning back against the edge of the counter. "I get this static from Sam all day, every day. I don't need it from you too, ok?"

"Just tell me why you won't even _talk_ about trying to get out of it."

"I don't want out of it."

"Dammit, Dean, why not?"

"Because if _I_ try to find a way out, _Sam_ dies."

He felt great satisfaction at the stunned look on Julie's face and he felt his eyes narrow. She merely sat there staring at him, her blue eyes wide and somewhat terrified. "What?"

"You heard me. I try to renege, alter the deal in any way? Sam drops dead. Those are the terms, there's no way out of it."

"And you agreed to that?"

He could remember vividly the moment Sam died in his arms—the weight against him, the kid's still chest pressed against his, the cold mud seeping through the knees of his jeans. His own screams echoed in his head and there was still an ache in his fingers from gripping Sam's jacket so tightly.

It was all there…in his head.

_Hey look, it's not even that bad! It's not even that bad, alright._

_Sammy._

_Sam!_

_Hey, listen to me. We're gonna patch you up, ok? You'll be good as new. Huh?_

_I'm gonna take care of you, I'm gonna take are of you. I got you._

_That's my job right? Look after my pain in the ass little brother?_

And that had been it. Sam's heart had stopped beating and Dean's heart had broken so severely that he hadn't had any options.

Swallowing hard at the noise within his head, he said roughly, "Yeah, I did."

Julie opened her mouth to say something but the motel room door swung open with such force that it banged off the wall.

There stood Sam, struggling under the weight of several balancing Styrofoam containers and a tray of coffee. "Dean," he looked over the top of the stack pleadingly. "Help."

Wiping the emotions off his face Dean jumped forward and took some of the top containers off the small pile in his brother's hands. "Jeez, Sammy."

"Feel like a frickin' circus performer."

"Quite the balance act you had goin' there, dude, I think you missed your calling."

Sam snorted, not even noticing the wide-eyed Julie staring at him from her seat on the bed. "I had to go to _three_ different places to get you your strawberry pancake syrup." He frowned. "I didn't even think you _liked_ strawberry?"

"It's not for me." Dean pursed his lips and motioned over Sam's shoulder. "I know it's Julie's favourite, or…it was when we were kids, anyway."

Dean watched as Sam turned around and him and Julie locked eyes for the first time in thirteen years. A smile spread across her face as she took in the six-foot-four Sammy. "Hey Sam."

He raised a hand in a shy wave. "Hi Julie. How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good."

Dean held out the Advil bottle and rattled it to get Sam's attention. "She's got a headache; toss those over to her, will you?"

Sam nodded and took the pill bottle, crossing the room and setting it into her waiting hand gently. She smiled up at him. "You got _really_ tall."

Dean nodded from across the room. "Yeah, I know. Unfair isn't it?"

"_I_ don't think it's unfair."

"Sam, the rules clearly state that the _big_ brother is supposed to be biggest." Dean held a coffee cup out to him. "I put ten creams and about twenty sugars in there, good enough?"

"The hell with it, throw thirty in there. It's the weekend."

The two grinned at each other and Sam leaned over the table, opening the to-go containers carefully. Dean felt eyes on them and looked up to find Julie watching them closely—and even though there was a gentle smile on her face, her blue eyes were impossibly sad.

* * *

"She's exhausted."

At Sam's words Dean glanced up into the rear-view, his eyes falling on the sleeping face of Julie lying in the back seat. She was lying on her right side, her head resting on one of the pillows from their motel room back in Gettysburg which Sam had insisted upon stealing for the drive to Bobby's.

"I don't remember being that tired," Sam said quietly, "just achy. Sore."

"Yeah, she was sayin' earlier she was sore."

He looked at her in the rear-view again.

"So I'm guessing you two talked earlier?"

"Hmm?"

"You and Julie. You two talked?"

Dean let out a breath and shifted slightly in his seat, his attention going back to the road. "Yeah. I guess."

Sam frowned, "You _guess_?"

"She said she thought her charm would do better with Cheyanne. And it was just supposed to be an exorcism; I don't think she was plannin' on it goin' so sideways."

"It's when you _don't _plan on it that it happens."

"Gettin' wise in your old age, Sammy."

Sam smiled and took a deep breath. "Have my moments."

The older man smirked lightly and glanced over, recycling someone else's words.

"I raised you, man; I don't doubt it."

* * *

_The gunshot followed by a frustrated scream echoed through the trees and Dean frowned. Sam frowned as well, looking up at his big brother from his seat in the rickety old rocking chair. "Who's screaming?"_

_He let out a breath and motioned to the book Sam had resting in his lap. "Cool out here, Sammy. I'll be right back."_

_Dean ruffled the ten- year-old's hair affectionately before taking off down the porch stairs and around the back of the house._

_He knew exactly who it was and what she was doing._

_She'd been out there for nearly two days._

_It was the first week of May and the sun was shining brightly. It wasn't humid or overly warm, just comfortable, and as he started into the woods behind the Singer Salvage yard, the sound of birds in the trees was somewhat calming._

_That is until Julie fired another shot and screamed again, sending every bird within a two mile radius up into the sky with loud squawks of infuriation. _

_The well-used dirt path led directly to the make-shift firing range that Bobby had constructed a couple of years before and just as he expected his eyes found Julie, taking aim down the range. The old fence had four or five pop cans propped up as targets and Dean frowned again; only five cans _could_ be propped up. _

_Which meant that Julie hadn't made a single shot._

"_Julie?" He approached slowly, stepping over the tree roots. "What's goin' on?"_

"_Nothing."_

"_Nothing? Really?" Coming to a stop right beside her, he said, "You're out here screaming."_

_She sighed. "I'm just frustrated."_

"_With what?"_

"_This—" she waved the handgun around flamboyantly. "—new gun! I can't hit _one_ can."_

"_What? Why?"_

"_I don't know!"_

"_Ok, alright, just—" Raising his hands in a 'calm down crazy person' kind of gesture he walked up to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, herding her into position. "Relax, ok?" When she nodded, he said, "Show me."_

"_Dean—"_

"_Just do it."_

_Letting out a sigh, she raised the gun and took aim. _

_He watched carefully—her technique, how tight her grip was, the way she pulled the trigger as well as her breathing as she prepared to fire. All were important and, at that moment, all were horrendous._

_She was slouching._

_Her grip was loose._

_She was breathing in quick, short gasps._

_She squeezed the trigger instead of pulling it._

_After a few seconds Julie fired, the kickback of the gun sending her arm flying and the bullet blasting into a nearby tree trunk, bark and wood chunks exploding all over the place._

_Dean blinked._

"_Ok, well that was…ok."_

_She looked at him over her shoulder and when she raised her eyebrows, he corrected, "Well, no, it was lousy, but we can work on it."_

_Dean looked down the range for a second and then nodded his head, as if coming to a decision. "Ok, come here," he stepped closer to her and steered her back into position, his hands innocently resting on her hips as he guided her. "Keep your legs solid, it'll help with the kickback."_

_She nodded, "Ok."_

_Taking his right hand off her hip, he moved it up to the gun which she still held, demonstrating things as he spoke. "Don't let your hand slip too low on the grip; that kinda pressure on the trigger and you'll shoot low." He pressed the gun tighter into her hand and closed his fingers around hers. "Tight grip and pull the trigger straight back."_

_Julie raised the gun into position and Dean settled right behind her again, speaking directly into her ear. "Remember, inhale for short distances and exhale for long. Keep your breathing steady or you'll throw off your aim." He felt her take a deep and calming breath. "That's it, just relax."_

_His hands went back to her hips as she carefully took aim. He studied her hands and how she was holding the gun, whether or not she was trembling or shaking. There was a slight tremble in her arms but he wrote it off as adrenalin. _

"_Take the shot when you're ready," Dean added quietly. "Don't rush it."_

_For just a second there was complete silence; there was no wind, no rustling leaves, no birds. There was just them._

_Julie took the shot._

_And the center can at the end of the range exploded, falling back off the top of the fence and into the long grass._

_He chuckled. "See?"_

_With a smile on her face she lowered the gun and spun around. _

_A fourteen year old girl's arms descended around a fourteen year old boy's shoulders and she hugged him, the smile on her face bright. "Thanks Dean."_

_He pulled her close and gave her a squeeze. _

The Impala blasted through the front gate of Singer Salvage just before 10:30am and Dean wasn't at all surprised to see Cheyanne sitting on the front steps waiting for them. He hadn't even brought the car to a complete stop and the eighteen year old was yanking the back door open, pulling Julie into a tight hug as soon as the older girl was on her feet.

Sam got out of the car slowly having been complaining about throbbing in his ribs; Dean simply sat there resting his head back against the seat, closing his eyes and letting out a long and tired breath.

He wanted to sleep for a week.

No dreams, no stress, no thinking.

Just sleep.

"Dean?"

Opening his eyes, he rolled his head on the headrest and saw Sam poking his head back in the open passenger window. The question was there in Sammy's concern-filled eyes. "I'm alright, Sammy," he said tiredly, "Just wiped."

The kid nodded. "Yeah, I hear you."

After a second Dean took a deep breath and pushed his door open, wincing at a sudden pain flaring in his shoulder as he stood from his seat. "Sleep and/or beer…right now." He closed the car door. "I don't care about the order."

Sam's eyes were glued to the two sisters still embracing at the back of the car and Dean couldn't help but look at them as well. Cheyanne had hooked her chin over Julie's shoulder and there were tears in her eyes, worry and panic coming out all at once. Julie for her part was holding on tight, whispering reassuring words in her little sister's ear.

To anyone else watching, the moment wouldn't have meant very much. But to Sam and Dean Winchester…two brothers that understood the true meaning of being reunited…it meant the world.

He felt like he was intruding and he got Sam's attention, nodding his head towards the front porch where Bobby was waiting for them. Sam nodded and the two started across the gravelled driveway.

As they got closer, Bobby shook his head. "You two are somethin' else."

"Why, what'd we do?"

"Look at ya!"

The two brothers exchanged a confused look and turned their heads back towards the older hunter in unison; Sam quirked an eyebrow. "Look…at us…what?"

"You're both hurtin' so damn much you can barely walk straight." He motioned them inside. "Get your sorry asses in here, ya idgits."

Dean pointed at him. "Now that's _one_ order I got no problem followin'. Sammy?"

"No, hey," Sam smiled tiredly, "I'm with you."

As he usually did in such situations, Dean stood to the side and let Sam go inside ahead of him. He listened to him and Bobby natter to each other as the screen door banged shut but he stayed out on the porch, watching the two Connor girls for just a moment longer.

They'd finally ended their hug and were standing close, still talking to each other quietly.

Julie, who was as much a hunter as he was, felt him watching and looked upwards, sending him a smile when their eyes met.

He returned the gesture before turning away, pulling opening the screen door and letting himself into the cool front hallway of Bobby's house.

It was a relief after the heat of the early morning drive and he couldn't help the slight wince as he shrugged out of his leather jacket. He could feel a trail of sweat working its way down the middle of his back under his shirt and when he walked into the kitchen moments later, he made a face of pure eiphoria when Bobby handed him an ice cold beer. "Oh," he took the bottle into his hand and looked at it as if it was leggy blonde in a mini-skirt. "Talk to me, baby."

Bobby smiled, "It's five somewhere."

"Right _here,_ right _now._"

Sam on the other hand was sitting at the table nursing a cup of coffee. "You should really only have one, Dean."

"What? Why?"

"You hardly slept last night and you took those painkillers at the motel, remember?"

The older brother made a face, settling in at the table, "_God_, I hate it when you start gettin' all sensible."

The three men heard the screen door squeak open and bang closed but didn't acknowledge it until Julie and Cheyanne came into the kitchen.

The moment Bobby laid eyes on Julie, she was in his arms. "Good to see you, sweetheart."

"You too, Bobby."

"You alright?"

They broke the embrace mutually and she nodded, sending him a smile. "Just tired."

Dean jumped when a tiny hand came to rest on his shoulder but relaxed when he realized who it was. Cheyanne was smiling down at him and it was so heart-breakingly beautiful, he just _had_ to smile back.

It was a silent thank you. An acknowledgement of the fact that they'd gone up there blind specifically to bring her sister back, and they'd done it…just as he'd said they would.

He simply nodded at her. _You're welcome._

Bobby was grinning as he looked around at all of the young people invading his kitchen.

"Well…any of you hungry?"

* * *

Dean emerged from the bathroom slowly, completely regretting the hours in the car now that the pain in his side had started flaring up again. The painkillers that he'd taken before leaving Gettysburg had been awesome but now that they'd started wearing off, he was suffering.

He remembered hearing somewhere that some injuries actually hurt _more_ once they start healing. More pain was actually a _good_ thing.

_Yeah, whatever. Dude who thought that up couldn't find his ass with two hands and a map._

His hand ended up on the doorframe to support himself and his eyes fell on his and Sam's bedroom door just a few steps down the hallway.

_This friggin' sucks._

"Dean?"

He looked up.

Julie was coming down the hallway from Bobby's room, which she and Cheyanne were sharing after the older hunter had insisted upon it. _"You boys are hurt and the girls need sleep,"_ he'd said, "_I'll take the couch."_

Dressed in black shorts and a white t-shirt, he could tell she'd been asleep. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, her bare feet padding across the floor nearly silently. "Hey," he said quietly, "Didn't wake you, did I?"

"Oh no, just—" she motioned to the bathroom doorway. "needed the bathroom."

He stood there and blinked owlishly for a second before snapping out of it, "Oh, well," he moved out of the way. "She's all yours."

Julie smiled at him gently before her brow furrowed. "You ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Little sore."

"Sore?"

"Yeah, it's uh," he looked sheepish, "It's been a rough couple weeks."

Her eyes drifted from his face up to the healing but angry looking cut in his hairline. Her brow furrowed even more and before he knew it, she was touching him, her tender fingers sweeping aside his hair and soothing the sore skin.

He couldn't help it. He closed his eyes and leaned right into her touch, letting out a slow breath.

She whispered, "Probably could've taken a couple stitches."

Dean heard the words…registered that she was talking to him and that she would expect a response. As much as he wanted to, however, he couldn't concentrate on anything but the feeling of her fingertips on his forehead.

He was used to a woman's touch. Used to feeling feminine fingertips, hearing feminine sighs, feeling _that_ kind of energy between himself and another person. It wasn't anything new. But there'd always been something about _Julie's_ touch that made it different.

Women surrendered to Dean Winchester.

But with Julie, it was _him_ that surrendered.

It'd been that way when they were teenagers, and thirteen years and a whole lotta women hadn't changed anything.

He didn't remember that he was bare-chested until she was suddenly touching him there, too; her hand resting on his chest as she tenderly traced the outline of his tattoo with her fingertips.

Dean moaned low in his throat and brought his hand up to cover hers, forcing her palm to lie flat against the skin of his chest. "Jewel…" he whispered huskily, forcing his eyes open.

She was dangerously close to him, mere inches away. It wouldn't take much for him to make the next move…hell, under normal circumstances he probably would've made it already.

But those weren't normal circumstances.

And Julie wasn't just anyone.

He swallowed painfully hard, then whispered, "We can't."

"Why not?"

"It's just…not a good idea."

She moved a little closer.

He could smell her coconut shampoo.

"I touched you like this back then."

There was a familiar haze settling over his vision consisting of nothing but want and lust, but he gave himself a mental shake and forced it back down.

He needed to _focus_.

"Things are different now."

Things were _incredibly_ different. They weren't teenagers anymore. They were adults; more experienced, more knowledgeable…more damaged.

After a second she nodded her head, her eyes going glassy. "Yeah, I know they are."

Dean let his eyes close and leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against hers. He sighed the words, "You know I want to."

They stayed like that for a second or two, breathing quietly, just enjoying the feeling of being together again.

Her right hand slid slowly up into his hair and she used the hold to draw his face down towards her own. Her mouth, hesitant, moved towards him, brushing so lightly against his own that it could've been mistaken for her breath if it hadn't caused a shock of electricity to sizzle through his body.

_There_ it was.

The heat they'd felt before.

Dean went the rest of the way, taking her lips fully with his own; hungry and firm, ripe with demand. She gasped against him and that small sound brought his senses back with the force of a wrecking ball. He broke the kiss and breathed a laugh, pulling his head back and opening his eyes.

The look in her blue eyes was something _else_ that he was used to.

Her eyes were giving him permission, _asking him_ to keep going. But the voice of common sense in the back of his mind—which oddly enough sounded just like Sam—told him to stop. It was telling him to leave it in the past…where it could be a memory he cherished instead of a regret that would eat him alive.

He pulled her hand away from his chest and sent her a tight smile.

"Can't do it."

She looked back at him, completely silent.

And then, very carefully, she went up on her tip-toes and pressed her lips to his forehead.

_I missed you._

_I wish we could..._

All of it wrapped up in two seconds of feeling her lips on his skin.

He felt her move away from him and when he opened his eyes again all he could do was watch her move around him and head into the washroom, quietly pushing the door closed behind her.

He'd said no because of who she was and what they'd had. But there was another reason, too.

In only a few months time as the demon had put it, he'd be moving into the hellfire frat house. Separated from Sam, separated from Bobby, separated from _everything_ that made him who and what he was.

Being separated from those people, those things, was nearly killing him.

He'd never survive adding _one more person_ to that list.

For just a second, it felt as if his chest would collapse in on itself.

And then there was Sammy.

"Dean?"

He looked up into the sleepy-eyed face of his little brother and nodded, pushing away from the doorframe and walking towards their bedroom door slowly. "What're you doin' up?"

It was obvious from the expression on Sam's face that he hadn't witnessed any of what had happened and Dean couldn't help but feel relieved.

And judging by how tired the kid looked, he probably wouldn't remember it even if he _had_.

"Just making sure you're ok." He was fighting a yawn. "B-Been gone a…l-long time."

Just at the sight of that yawn, Dean could feel a smile brewing in his cheeks. There it was the middle of the night, Dean in one of the worst moods he could imagine…and Sam was unknowingly coming to his rescue, as he often did.

And as Dean always did at least _once_ a day, he thanked _God_ that he had a little brother.

Reaching the door, he thumped Sam's shoulder affectionately.

"Come on, bitch. Bed."

Sam merely nodded and yawned again, allowing his big brother to steer him back into the darkness of their bedroom, pulling the door closed behind them.

Dean was aware of it when his head hit the pillow. He was aware of it when Sam fell back into sleep.

He wasn't aware of it at all when his own eyes finally drifted closed, sending him into the dreamless sleep he'd been dreaming of for months.

* * *

The house was quiet the next morning.

Bobby was in the kitchen having a one-sided fight with the toaster…Sam was back in the overstuffed chair by the library fireplace, a large book resting across his thighs…and Dean was stretched out on the couch, his right hand shielding his eyes from the relentless sunshine streaming in through the window.

It was as if the whole hunt in Gettysburg had never happened.

They were right back where they started.

Without even opening his eyes, Dean asked, "What are you readin', Sammy?"

"Just…doing some research."

_Ah, of course. Research._

Why did he even bother asking anymore?

Sammy was _always_ doing research—reading, writing, searching, calling—it never stopped. The older man had lost count of the number of times he'd woken up in the middle of the night to find Sam using his flashlight to read in the darkness of wherever they were. The kid was determined when it came to research on the best of days, but when it came to Dean's deal and trying to find a way out of it?

There was absolutely no comparison.

Sam wasn't _determined_.

He was desperate.

Dean wanted to tell his brother to put the book away and just relax; to close his eyes and take a few deep breaths. To let go of the angst and the stress. But he was smart enough to know that no matter how many times he told his brother to do those things, Sam would ignore him. Forcing the issue would cause tempers to flare and a fight to spring out of nothing and Dean was done fighting about _nothing_. He couldn't afford it anymore. He just didn't have the time.

The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs reached Dean's ears and he opened his eyes, looking towards the open doorway of the library. After a few seconds Julie appeared there, carrying a duffel bag. Dean cleared his throat which caused Sam to look up as well.

"You headin' out?"

She nodded, adjusting the strap of the duffel on her shoulder. "Yeah, I think so. Getting kinda restless."

Sam nodded empathetically. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Just waiting for Cheyanne?"

"Yeah, she's slower getting her act together than I am."

Sam smiled.

Psyching himself up, Dean took a breath and pushed himself into a sitting position on the sofa. He was on his feet only seconds later somehow managing to hold in a wince. Sam asked softly, "You ok, Dean?"

He made a face and gave a somewhat tight nod. He looked to Julie. "Can we talk?"

She looked surprised but said, "Yeah. Sure."

"Sammy, come on out with Cheyanne, huh?"

The kid muttered a quiet _ok_ and Dean crossed the library, following Julie as she headed towards and out the front door.

The Mustang and the Impala were parked just a few meters away from the old porch steps and Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, watching as Julie opened the back door of her car and tossed her bag in.

"It's too bad, you know."

Squinting in the sunlight, he said, "What's too bad?"

She nodded towards her car.

"You never got to drive her."

A smile forced its way onto Dean's face and he chuckled, "Well, I gotta be careful which girls I drive," he mimicked her movement and nodded towards the Impala. "Someone might get jealous."

"Nah. Your eyes may wander but you always go home with her. She knows how you feel."

Still smiling, he moved to lean back against the Mustang's passenger door and let out a breath, looking aimlessly around the yard.

There was an awkwardness there between them that hadn't been there before their encounter in the hallway the night before and Dean cursed himself for it. He had a feeling deep down in the pit of his stomach that he wouldn't cross paths with the Connors again and in a way he almost didn't want to.

_Keep it in the past_, he reminded himself. _Let sleeping dogs lie._

He swallowed hard.

"You got your anti-possession charm back, yeah?"

Julie nodded, "Cheyanne practically threw it at me the second I was outta the car."

"Can't blame her."

"No, I guess not."

Another small silence bloomed between them and after a few strained seconds, Julie said his name. He looked over at her and watched as she pawed at the ground with the toe of her hiking boot. "You're really just…gonna let it happen?"

He didn't need to ask what she was talking about and he wouldn't play anything up by asking her anyway.

He looked out over the yard again and simply said, "Yeah."

"When is it?"

"Do you really wanna know?"

She didn't answer but Dean could feel the answer in the air.

No. She didn't want to know.

Who in their right mind _would_ want to know? It was the kind of countdown that ate away at sanity and happiness, trying desperately to take over your life—you had to fight it tooth and nail. It had taken over Sam's life, and by proxy, had taken over Dean's.

But not because Dean was worried about himself, no…he was worried about his brother.

One of the reasons he'd kept them so damn busy over those past couple weeks was because when they were on a job and physically _doing_ something, hunting and helping _others_, things felt almost normal. Well…their particular _brand_ of normal anyway, if the everyday life of a Winchester could even be _called_ normal in any way, shape or form.

One brother had visions and occasional bouts of telekinesis.

The other had made a deal with a demon and was going to Hell.

No, they weren't normal. As Dean had once put it while they were fleeing St. Louis, they were freaks; but that had never really bothered them. For most of their lives they'd always double-teamed their freak factor and that was enough.

But the deal? Dean wasn't touchin' that one. Sam always came first, even when it meant that Dean in the end wouldn't survive it.

And as a big sister, he knew that Julie felt the exact same way about Cheyanne.

"I honestly don't know what to say."

After a second Dean smiled and looked over at her. "Speechless? You?"

She didn't even smile. "Dean."

"Yeah, I know." He slid himself along the side of the car to stand a little closer to her, nudging her arm playfully. "But I'm ok with it."

"You're not scared at all?"

"You wanna know what scares me? Honestly?"

She nodded her head and he let out a breath, his eyes settling on the gleaming Impala only a few feet away.

It wasn't like him to be so candid with someone other than his brother. He was private when it came to his feelings, his emotions; he'd been that way since he was a kid. He was a pro when it came to offering someone a completely bogus smile and making them believe it was the real thing. Sam, after all, was the only one who could tell when he was being genuine.

But the words hanging out in the back of his throat were words he'd been dying to say out loud. He didn't want to say them to Sam, for obvious reasons…but they were there, screaming for him to just _admit_ _it_.

_Now or never._

"I don't wanna leave Sam on his own." Dean swallowed. "So much has happened. So much crap. I mean, I don't know what kinda future he's gonna have, what he's gonna get himself into."

"What's happened?"

"Trust me, you don't wanna know."

"No," she mimicked his movement and slid closer, a look of pure and genuine concern on her face. "No, I do. I really, _really_ do."

"Julie."

Dean breathed a harsh laugh and broke eye contact, slowly shaking his head.

_It's kind of a family thing._

He remembered saying the words to Ellen when she'd started asking questions. And while he may have felt that way at that moment with Julie's questioning eyes looking up at him, he didn't want to say it out loud. He settled for silence instead and she got the message.

She worried her bottom lip for a second and said quietly, "Sam knows how you feel, Dean. He knows—"

"I've never told him. Never said the words out loud—"

"You don't have to." Julie's hand settled on his arm gently but it wasn't lustful in any way; just comforting…oddly reassuring. "He's a smart guy, Dean. I think he can read you better than you think he can."

Dean laughed again, "I got no doubts about how well he can read me." He paused thoughtfully, "Sometimes I wish he couldn't."

She smiled, giving his arm a squeeze before dropping her hand to her side. "Yeah, I've been there a couple times, too."

"Can you do me a favour?" Julie nodded at him and he lowered his voice. "281-555-0108."

"Ok?"

"Can you remember that?"

"281-555-0108."

"That's Sam's cell number. Can you keep in touch with him? Give him a call in a couple months, make sure he's doin' ok?"

"Dean—"

"I've already talked to Bobby and he's gonna be lookin' after him. I've been savin' money for him in a Chicago bank account; Bobby's got all the information." He could feel a burning in his eyes and fought against it with everything he had. Swallowing hard, he said, "I don't want him bein' alone. I can't leave him knowing he's gonna be alone."

"What about your dad?"

A brand new pain blossomed in Dean's chest and he tried to smile….tried to push it away.

"He's uh…he's not around."

Julie frowned. "Not around? What—"

"Just do that for me, ok?"

All she did was nod, but he knew that he could count on her. When they'd been kids she'd watched out for Sam almost as much as he had himself; and he'd returned the favour, watching over Cheyanne whenever he could.

One older sibling to another.

Leaning forward he pressed his lips to her forehead and exhaled, feeling her slant towards him.

It was at that moment that the screen door of the house banged open. There were voices, then loaded silence, then gossipy muttering in a voice that Dean recognized all too well.

Sam, Cheyanne and Bobby were gathered on the porch, watching wide-eyed as Dean pulled his lips from Julie's skin. He glanced over his shoulder. "Come on down the damn stairs, you rubberneckers."

Silence lasted a second longer before three pairs of feet plonked down the old wooden steps and crunched on the gravel, rounding the Mustang and joining them.

Cheyanne was grinning.

Sam was looking obnoxiously smug.

Bobby, just unsurprised.

Julie cleared her throat, "You ready to go, Cheyanne?"

The teenager nodded and Bobby said, "You sure you really wanna go, Julie? I mean, it's only been half a day since you got here."

"I'm ok, Bobby." She smiled. "Ready to get moving again."

"You're sure. 'Cause you know you can stay."

Julie was practically snuggled right into Dean's side, her arm slung across his lower back, but at Bobby's words she moved forward and wrapped her arms around the old man's scruffy neck. "I know." Dean heard her say quietly. "Thanks for everything."

Bobby's house was so much like a hunters' orphanage that sometimes Dean couldn't believe it. He didn't know if others used the Singer Salvage Yard as a sanctuary as he and Sam often did…but standing right _there_ were two pairs of orphaned hunter siblings that had no one else and were welcome at Bobby's any time of the day or night.

That fact made Dean love the old man even more.

Julie pulled away from him still smiling and turned her eyes upwards to Sam. The kid looked as shy as always but returned the smile, holding Julie close when she moved in to hug him.

He completely dwarfed her, to the point where she nearly disappeared in his embrace.

Dean simply smiled and watched.

"Take care, Sam."

He nodded, "Thanks, Julie. You too."

They broke apart gently and Julie moved back to stand beside Dean. Hugs were shared between Cheyanne, Sam and Bobby and when the eighteen year old turned towards him, Dean grinned at her.

"You gonna keep your sister in line?"

She quirked an eyebrow and her expression was so sardonic, he couldn't help but laugh. "Can Sam keep _you_ in line?"

Sam chuckled, "I do what I can."

Cheyanne smiled and stepped into Dean's open arms, her head fitting just perfectly under his chin—just like her sister's did. "Take care, kid, ok?"

She nodded against his chest, her voice slightly muffled by his shirt. "Thanks Dean."

"I tell ya, I really wish you two would stay." Bobby frowned stubbornly at Julie as the embraces ended. "Bein' possessed by a demon is no joke, you know that."

"I promise that I'm fine."

Bobby shook his head and she turned towards Dean again, not saying a word before stepping forward and wrapping her arms around his neck. He let out a breath and pulled her close, wanting desperately to close his eyes as her hair tickled his nose.

She whispered, "281-555-0108."

He clutched her tighter.

"Thank you."

The others, obviously thinking they were intruding on something private, started chatting amongst themselves and as they rounded back around to the passenger side of the Mustang.

Dean barely noticed as Julie whispered again, "Promise me you'll be alright."

It was a promise he couldn't keep and therefore wouldn't make.

"Drive safe, Jewel."

The two stood there for a second and she finally pulled away, moisture pooling in the corners of her eyes. "Why'd we wait thirteen years?"

He let out a breath and pushed himself from the side of the car. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"You ready, Julie?"

Cheyanne was looking at her sister over the roof of the car and Julie nodded, squeezing Dean's arm before pulling open the driver's door and sliding in behind the wheel. As soon as she was settled, Dean pushed the door closed and took a step back grinning like a moron when the Mustang's engine came to life, making a rumble that in a way rivalled the Impala.

Bobby knocked on the rood of the car.

"You two be safe, for the love of god!"

The two girls sent waves and smiles, Julie's eyes lingering on Dean's a little longer than the others, and the Mustang started rolling kicking up a dust cloud. As the car pulled away the three men came together, their eyes following until the car disappeared onto the main road.

Bobby hung around for a minute longer and then headed back towards the house, muttering about "damn impatient kids" and how they were going to "give him ulcers".

Dean felt Sam move closer, nudging his shoulder gently. "You ok, man?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Just…makin' sure."

Dean looked over at his kid brother, sending him an incredibly small smile.

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm ok."

"You gonna come in?"

"Right behind you."

Sam's hand came down gently on Dean's shoulder and he turned away, following Bobby's lead up the porch steps and into the house.

Dean stayed outside, his eyes still staring on the exact spot where the tail end of the Mustang had disappeared.

What he'd said to Julie rang true. While he knew _exactly_ what was going to happen in only a few months time, the only certainty was what was going to happen to _him_. Sam's future, Sam's fate, was a complete mystery simply because Dean wouldn't be around to see it for himself.

Hellhounds, demons, fire, torture. All of those things were waiting for him in the supposed _presidential suite_ and while the thought of it would terrify someone in their right mind…that wasn't the most terrifying thing to Dean Winchester.

Sam on his own.

Sam in pain.

Sam angry.

Sam _vengeful._

All Dean could do was hope. Hope that the people he'd asked to take over for him would be up for it…Bobby and now Julie; two people out of six billion that he trusted with his little brother's well-being.

All he could do was hope.

As the demon in Gettysburg had hinted, he didn't have time for anything else.

_END_


	15. S

**Author's Note: **Hey all! I had the day off today, and since the weather here in Toronto is pushing 40 degrees celsius, I thought I'd stay in with the A/C and get this chapter finished. We all love Bobby (damn impossible not to lol) and I wanted at least one chapter of this series to be devoted to him. So here it is! I don't know how old the brothers were when John and Bobby had the big fight, so I kinda played around a bit. I hope that you like it and have a good weekend!

**Disclaimer:** Umm...ok, well...there aren't two Winchester brothers wandering aimlessly around my apartment, so...that would be a no.

* * *

**S is for Singer**

**

* * *

**_The loud barking drew his attention and he looked over, smiling when he saw it. _

_The two foot tall brunette was laughing as the dog snuffled, sticking his wet nose right into his ear. "Dean!" He tried to back away as Cooper—Bobby's old bloodhound—trailed after him, trying to lick the kid's face. "Dean!"_

_The older Winchester brother sat on the rickety porch steps, squinting in the sunlight with a grin on his face. "He likes you, Sammy."_

_With the sound of little Sammy's giggling and the mental image of Dean smiling, Bobby went back to the task at hand, leaning over the exposed engine of the Camero._

_The Winchesters didn't come around often, but when John dropped his boys off it always made Bobby's week. Having that little bit of innocence around the house made all the difference._

_Even if that innocence couldn't possibly last forever._

_**/SNSNSNSNSN/**_

Bobby used the edge of the kitchen counter to open the beer and had it ready and waiting when Dean schlepped into the kitchen, still carrying his duffel bag over his shoulder and his car keys in his hand.

Bobby grinned and held the bottle out to him. "I'm guessin' it's time to start drinkin'."

"What time is it?"

"Nearly two."

"Two." Dean took the bottle, sending the old man a wink. "Awesome."

Sam followed two minutes later, sending Bobby a smile and letting out a breath as he plonked down into one of the chairs at the table. "Seriously, dude," he said, "I could sleep a week straight."

"You boys been busy since I saw you last?"

Dean snorted and took a long pull off his beer. "_Busy_ would've been nice, huh, Sammy?"

The kid simply nodded, raking his fingers through his hair.

"Well, now's the time to rest up. Plenty of beer in the fridge…bottled water for you, Sam. Got a couple steaks for the grill later; Dean, you up for cookin'?"

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Me? Cooking? Really?"

Bobby stared at him for a second before narrowing his eyes. "Don't start. When it comes to cookin', the one place you got skills is usin' the barbeque." He pointed at him. "You're doin' it."

Dean's face fell while Sam laughed.

_**/SNSNSNSNSN/**_

"Bobby!"

He turned from his task of washing off the corn cobs to watch Sam stumble into the kitchen, a truly enormous smear of barbeque sauce down his face. Bobby snorted in shock. "What in the hell happened to you?"

"My idiot brother, _that's_ what happened!" Sam grabbed at the paper towel and gave it a yank, sending nearly the entire role down onto the floor. He swore under his breath and bent to clean up when he suddenly yelped, his right hand going to his eye. "It's in my eye, Bobby. Sauce is in my eye!"

Sam wasn't twenty-four. _No_. No, he was still eight years old…and his big brother was four and a half.

Bobby dropped the corn into the sink and grabbed the wash cloth, drenching it with water before practically throwing it in Sam's face.

"Wipe yourself off before you go blind, ya idgit."

Sam followed the order and carefully started wiping his face, Bobby watching in case the kid poked his own eyeball out or something equally ridiculous. When Sam finally forced his blood-shot, barbeque-sauced eye open, Bobby said, "You two, I'm tellin' ya. It's like I'm runnin' a daycare center when you're here."

"It was _DEAN'S_ fault!"

Sam shouted his big brother's name pointedly and there was no doubt at all that Dean heard from his position at the grill. Seconds later, he shouted back, "You're lucky I didn't get you with the damn spray bottle!"

"You got sauce in my friggin' _eye_, Dean!"

There was a snort followed by a loud and boisterous laugh.

Bobby stood for a second, watching Sam's ears slowly turn red—_always_ a danger sign—and cleared his throat, motioning to the onion sitting on the counter. "You better stay inside with me, 'fore you two murder each other. Here," he handed Sam a knife. "slice those up and fry 'em for me."

Sam nodded and moved towards the counter, taking the knife and attacking the onion with a fervour that Bobby could only stand and gawk at.

'_Oh well,' _he thought, _'better that onion than his brother's face.'_

_

* * *

_

_The very center of the make-shift target exploded, the bullet from a twelve year old Dean's gun imbedding itself in the wood. The sound echoed for what felt like miles throughout the woods back behind Bobby's house, what was left of the day's sunlight streaming through the high branches, casting shadows along the forest floor. _

"_Good shot, kid."_

_He watched as Dean spun around, holding the Beretta tightly in his hands. Bobby smiled at him, motioning towards the target. "Your daddy can't even shoot like that."_

_Dean looked back towards the target._

"_You're gettin' good." He moseyed over to stand at the young boy's side, watching as he pulled back the slide and loaded another round into the chamber. "You've been out here a long time though. Somethin' on your mind?"_

"_Dad wanted me practicing while he was gone."_

"_Oh—" _

_Another shot rang out and a second bullet joined the first, destroying the center of the target even more. _

"_Your brother's awake. Fever's down to a hundred and one; might try feedin' him some soup or somethin' later."_

"_He askin' for me?"_

"_Don't he always when you ain't around?"_

_Dean let out a breath and dropped the gun to his side, his grip loose._

_It never failed to amaze the older man how _old_ Dean was for a twelve year old. Looking at him right then, it was as if the kid had the weight of the world on his shoulders…the weight of his tiny little family…the weight of a little brother that meant more to him than anything else._

_They were only a couple of months shy of Dean's thirteenth birthday._

_His first hunt._

_Bobby took a deep breath and spoke quietly. "Somethin' is goin' on with you. You're thinkin' too hard."_

"_Is Sam alone?"_

"_Well," Bobby smiled, "not really. Cooper's in there with him. Old hound's got the heart of a lion."_

"_He's kind of a wimp."_

"_Yeah, but he can be downright mean when he needs to be."_

_The old man was relieved when Dean smiled lightly, turning to look at him. "Can I ask you somethin'?"_

"_Sure. Shoot."_

_A slight hesitation and then, "You think I'll be a good hunter, Uncle Bobby?"_

_Bobby stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "That what this is about? All this broodin' you been doing?"_

"_I'm not _brooding_."_

"_No?"_

"_I've been watchin', you know? You and dad." Dean shook his head, shrugging a shoulder. "I dunno."_

"_You're scared."_

_At Bobby's words Dean glanced over again and frowned, looking comically offended for such a young kid. "I'm not _scared_."_

_Bobby could see through Dean's mask...the mask he'd perfected no doubt the night Mary died. It was unfortunate seeing someone so young trying to make himself look so old. _

_He'd been wearing it a lot, lately._

"_Dean, you're gonna be a great hunter." He said quietly, placing a gentle hand on the kid's shoulder. "You're a smart kid, you got what it takes. Trust me, I've been lookin' at hunters since I was fifteen…you're a hunter."_

"_Yeah?"_

"_Yeah." He squeezed Dean's shoulder and nodded back towards the house. "Come on. Come on in and see your brother."_

_**/SNSNSNSNSN/**_

Lynyrd Skynyrd's '_Freebird_' blasted from the Impala's speakers and out the open doors, Dean singing along soundlessly as he took aim down the range.

There was a light breeze, the sun was shining, the birds were chirping…and Dean was going stir crazy.

Bobby could see it as if the kid had a sign pinned on the back of his shirt.

Dean was good for maybe a day or two, sitting around and taking it easy. He was as restless as any other hunter Bobby had ever seen, hell, in some cases he was ten times worse. He loved being on the road, _needed_ to be on the road...him and his brother criss-crossing the United States more than the covered wagons did a hundred years ago.

Even with the music on and the wind rustling through the trees, Bobby knew his approach wasn't a secret. Dean's shoulders fell slightly as if he was relaxing, and the kid laughed, turning to glance over his shoulder. "Gettin' sneaky in your old age, Bobby."

He chuckled. "Apparently, not sneaky enough."

"Nah," Dean smirked, "just got young ears."

"Yeah, big mouth, too."

The two men laughed quietly, Dean looking back down the range and popping the magazine from his handgun.

_You think I'll be a good hunter, Uncle Bobby?_

Dean had been a cute kid once; a pair of green puppy eyes that rivalled his brother's, a smile that got him outta damn near everything, an attitude and an instinct that could give hunters twice his age a run for their money. But a lot of years had passed and he wasn't that cute kid anymore. He was a grown man, with more responsibility than most shoulders could handle.

But since that first hunt, he'd handled all that responsibility better than anyone could've expected.

There was no doubt at all who the boy's father was.

Bobby cleared his throat and took a few steps forward. "Y'know what I was thinkin' about?"

There was a loud click as Dean reloaded a new magazine.

"_I'm_ not the psychic in this little family, remember?"

"Smart ass."

Dean laughed. "What were you thinkin' about?"

"Just before your first hunt? You were out here shootin'?"

"Sam was sick with the stomach flu." He glanced over his shoulder again. "I remember."

"You remember what you asked me?"

_You think I'll be a good hunter, Uncle Bobby?_

Dean breathed a laugh, raking a hand through his spiky light brown hair. "You haven't been _Uncle Bobby_ in a long time."

"Yeah. Lost that name when you and Sam stopped bein' cute."

"Hey, we're still cute. Well, _I_ am, anyway." The two locked eyes, then in a quiet voice, "Good hunters, though, aren't we?"

Bobby's hand came down gently on Dean's shoulder.

"Two of the best."

* * *

"_You got one hell of a nerve, Singer."_

"_John—"_

"_Tellin' me how to raise _my_ children."_

_Bobby shook his head from his seat behind his desk and raised his voice. "They're kids, John! Little kids. Y'know, sometimes I think you forget that."_

"_I don't—"_

"_Dean's ten years old for Christ sake and acts more like a thirty year old. Kid barely even smiles anymore, or have you even noticed that?"_

"_Singer—"_

"_And Sam! Well, Sam. Nightmares, terrors…goes for _days_ without talkin' to anyone but his brother, and even then, he's like a deer in the headlights."_

"_No he's not!"_

_Bobby's fist came down on the desk loudly, rattling everything on the surface. He glared. "Yes, he is! As much as you try to hide it from him, he knows where his mother died. The kid ain't stupid."_

"_And what the hell am I supposed to do?" John approached and leaned down, bracing his fists on the desk. "Huh? Let my sons live normal lives when whatever killed Mary is out there somewhere? They need to know how to protect themselves, Bobby, it's important."_

"_I'm not disagreein' with you. But _how_ you're doin' it? The running, the shooting, this damn _drill sergeant_ thing you got goin' on? It's not the answer. Not for two kids."_

"_Oh and I guess you could do better, huh?" John sneered slightly. "Oh yeah, that's right, you never had kids."_

_The comment hit Bobby like a sledgehammer and he recoiled in his chair, his face falling. _

_Even all those years later, he remembered the moaning…the howling…the hissing; the darkness that had taken over the house the moment his wife had walked in the door. There'd been something different about her, something sinister, but he hadn't known what. _

_He'd heard stories growing up about demons and monsters, the shadows in the dark and the creatures that lived within them. But back then they'd only been stories, myths to scare kids and tourists around camp fires. _

_He'd learned the truth the day he'd killed his wife._

_The day he'd seen the cloud of toxic black smoke explode from her mouth, the inhuman screaming and the flickering lights. Her chest riddled with knife wounds and bullet holes. Her blood on his hands. _

_It wasn't until after the investigation that he'd found out she'd been pregnant. _'She probably didn't know'_, the doctor had said, _"I'm very sorry."

_Bobby swallowed hard, fighting back tears. _

"_You take that back," he said quietly, "or get the hell outta my house."_

_All was silent as the two men stared at each other._

_But the silence was broken._

"_Uncle Bobby!"_

_Sam burst into the room, grass stains on his pants and mud smeared across his young face. "Uncle Bobby, look what we found!"_

_Bobby sniffled slightly as the young boy ran at him, forcing a smile onto his face as Sam, quite literally, jumped up onto his lap. He couldn't hold in the grunt at the kid's enthusiasm. "What did you find?"_

_And in his little hand was a darkly coloured rock, chipped and slightly worn. "Dean says—" He was so excited, he stuttered, "Dean says that it's good luck."_

_Gently, Bobby took the rock into his own hand and looked at it closely. "You know what this is?" Sam shook his head eagerly. "It's a smoky quartz crystal. It's very lucky."_

"_So Dean was right?"_

_Bobby nodded, swallowing hard again. "Yeah, Dean was right."_

_A grin spread across Sam's face as Bobby tipped the crystal back into his waiting hand. After a second, he hopped off Bobby's legs and took off running again, calling his big brother's name. _

_The light thud of Sam's sneakers faded away quickly and the tension rose again, Bobby leaning back in his chair as John stood in front of the desk, looking guilty._

"_Bobby, I'm…I'm sorry." He finally said quietly, "I shouldn't have said that. I mean, I know…" John sighed, sitting down heavily into one of the other chairs. "I know that I can be a real son of a bitch sometimes. I know that. But those boys…those boys are all I got left. I can't lose 'em the way I lost Mary, I can't."_

_Bobby raised his now bloodshot eyes. _

_The man sitting across the desk was a friend, someone that Bobby had trusted and hunted with probably close to a thousand times over the few years since they'd first met. He understood what it was like to lose someone you love, he knew what it was like to watch them die and not know what to do. He knew what it was like to be alone._

_But John Winchester wasn't alone. There were two kids digging up smoky quartz crystals just a couple dozen feet away, and they should've been the most important thing in his life._

"_You gotta stop thinkin' that you lost everything when you lost Mary, Winchester." Bobby rasped. "'Cause you didn't. You got two boys that need you and you can't go forgettin' about them."_

_John looked down at the floor. _

"_They don't need an instructor or a colonel. They need a father."_

_With a pain still somewhere deep in his chest Bobby stood from his chair and quietly left the library, heading into the kitchen._

_There was an unopened bottle of bourbon sitting on top of the fridge and he had every intention of drinking the entire thing, wanting nothing more than to erase the memories that still plagued him from all those years ago._

_That was one thing, unfortunately, that he and John Winchester had in common. The only therapy they could cope with was at the bottom of a bottle._

_Just as he was reaching for it the screen door leading outside was pushed open and Dean appeared, grass stains on his pants matching Sam's. "Uncle Bobby?"_

_Bobby dropped his hand and turned, letting out a tired sigh, "Yeah."_

"_Uh…Cooper pooped in the garage again."_

_Well…_

_Maybe the _only_ therapy wasn't at the bottom of a bottle._

_Despite the fact that he was completely miserable, Bobby found himself chuckling. He crossed the kitchen in only a few steps and let his arm fall across Dean's shoulders as the duo made their way out into the yard._

_

* * *

_

Bobby wasn't sure which Winchester's ass he wanted to kick most.

They were at it again, the loud and furious voices drifting in lazily through the worn screen door of the kitchen. It had been happening on and off since the two morons had gotten up that morning and it didn't take an astrophysicist to see that it wasn't going to be letting up any time soon.

That morning had marked the seven month anniversary of Dean's trip out to the South Dakota crossroads, leaving them only five months to find that one _just-out-of-reach _miracle. Tensions were high, fuses were short and tempers when they were lost were explosive.

The deal and its consequences were infecting each and every one of them, slowly and painfully, Dean being the metaphorical _ground zero._

Bobby Singer was no stranger to tragedy. Hell, he'd been a hunter long enough to have experienced everything—loss, sadness, grief and anger. But he'd always found ways to deal with those things. Fought against them and moved on, knowing in the put of his stomach and the core of his common sense that he'd always done the best he could with whatever he had.

_But this is different._

Dean_ is different._

He remembered well the frigid night in Cold Oak, making his way back to the center of town by following the sounds of Dean's inhuman screams, only to find him kneeling in the mud, rocking back and forth with Sam's motionless body leaning against him.

He remembered well the slight welts that had been left behind after Dean had shoved him, yelling at him to leave him and his brother alone. The kid wouldn't eat, wouldn't rest, couldn't even enter the same room as Sam's body without nearly completely losing it.

He remembered well the feelings of joy, relief and complete panic when he'd opened his front door to see _both_ brothers standing before him—one smiling, practically _glowing_…the other looking shamefaced and sheepish, as if he were just waiting for the emotional explosion.

It wasn't something he'd shown on the outside—his pain and his heartbreak when Sam had been killed. He'd fortified his exterior so all the emotions had been kept buried inside his chest, only letting down the defences when he was home and Dean was out of earshot. In a way he'd known what the consequences of leaving Dean alone would be. Even an outsider could see that without Sam, Dean wouldn't last long.

What did a big brother do when his little brother was gone? What was his purpose then?

Yeah. Bobby should've seen it coming a mile away.

But then Dean was just like his father—his life always worth _less_ than the lives of those he loved most in the world.

He'd known John Winchester since the stone age, having watched the man practically come apart at the seams, descending into the world of hunting and bringing his boys right along with him.

Along with Caleb and Jim Murphy, Bobby was among the first few supernatural hunters that John had come into contact with. Sure, it was Missouri Moseley that had first told him about the supernatural to begin with….but how to _track_ the bastards, understand them and kill them? He'd learned all that from Singer and company.

The importance of keeping a journal to catalogue various monsters and useful weapons, tips for tracking, and ways to spot specific and suspicious events that led (or _could _lead) to a case.

Information on how exactly to construct the perfect weapons locker. How the trunk of a car worked best, seeing as how it was the only area of a vehicle that couldn't be spotted by a passer-by.

How to recognize sulphur signatures, how to spot a demonic possession (whether single or mass), how to properly calculate lunar cycles and clean rock salt shot-guns so that they didn't wear away.

Bobby had known the Winchester boys since they were kids, having been there to see Sam's first steps as well as to help put in Dean's first set of stitches. He'd had the falling out with John and then nearly thirteen years later two grown men had appeared on his doorstep, a '67 Impala parked in the driveway and two sets of hazel green eyes that he'd recognize anywhere.

Sam and Dean had quickly become permanent fixtures in his life and for the two years that followed that reunion, his love for them had done nothing but grow. As far as he was concerned, they were as good as his own; which was one of the reasons that not being able to help get Dean out of his deal hurt so badly.

Both brothers were suffering because of the debacle in Cold Oak seven months before. But instead of suffering in _silence_, as they had been, they were now openly yelling and screaming at each other.

Bobby was brought out of his reverie by the sound of heavy footsteps on the old wooden porch and the screen door being yanked open. Before he could say a word a furious Sam stomped passed the kitchen doorway and immediately started up the stairs.

And then, almost predictably, there was the jarring sound of shattering glass from out near the back garage.

After only a second's hesitation—trying to decide which brother needed the verbal lashing more—the older hunter crossed the kitchen and slowly made his way outside.

It didn't take long for him to stumble across the elder Winchester brother. Bobby found him standing angrily beside the broken down Hemi-Cuda, a tire iron in one hand and broken glass crunching beneath his feet.

The windshield had been spectacularly blown out.

Bobby let out a breath.

"I asked you to help me fix that car up, not make it worse than it was—"

"I'll replace the damn windshield, Bobby."

"You're damn right you will." He leaned back against the back corner panel of the car, folding his arms across his chest. "So…you wanna tell me what in the hell you two idgits are fightin' about now?"

Dean, obviously still fuming, threw the tire iron down to the ground and growled, "The damn kid just _won't_ let it go."

"The deal again, huh?"

"It's always the deal, Bobby! Stubborn bastard just doesn't get it."

"Well, judgin' from the look that was on Sam's face, he's thinkin' the same thing about you. Boy looks as riled as a hornet's nest."

"I don't care. He doesn't listen to _one_ friggin' word I say." Dean unhappily raked his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, his expression shifting from one of anger to one of downright misery. "I just…I need him to _stop_."

"Stop?"

"This crap is hard enough without him…"

Dean trailed off rather lamely and Bobby just couldn't help himself. "Don't let Sam see you hesitate like that, Dean. Might fool the poor kid into thinkin' you actually give a crap."

The anger returned. "Bobby, I don't need this from you, too—"

"Oh, you don't?"

"No. I don't."

Bobby watched silently as Dean bent over and scooped up the tire iron before making his way over to the old wooden tool bench, tossing it down with a clank. There was a definite hunch to the kid's shoulders that was hard to miss and Bobby, for just a second, felt somewhat guilty. If there was anyone the whole situation was hard on, it was Dean; didn't matter if he openly admitted it or not.

Bobby'd been around long enough to be able to tell.

"Look, boy, I'm not tryin' to bust on you, ok?" Dean stopped his movements at the older hunter's words and sighed, bracing his hands on the edge of the work table. "It's just, you're right. This crap is hard 'nough without you and Sam fightin' all the time."

Dean didn't say a word.

"I mean…maybe you should sit and talk to him, y'know? Might go a long way."

"I can't talk to him, Bobby."

"What d'you mean, you can't talk to him? He's your blood, ain't he?"

"That's my point." The younger man slowly turned around, leaning himself back against the bench. He held a grease covered rag loosely in his hands. "You think I want him knowin' all this? Dealin' with it?"

Bobby simply stared.

"You're dumber than you look, kid."

Dean sighed again.

"If you think for one second that Sam's not dealin' with this already, than you gotta open your damn eyes."

"What am I supposed to do?"

The look on Dean's face, the roughness of his voice, was as much an admittance of emotional pain than as if he'd actually said the words out loud. There was a genuine sadness shining in his eyes—eyes that usually only danced and sparkled with playfulness or mischief.

If there was sadness in Dean Winchester's eyes than the situation was dire.

But then, all three men—Dean, Sam and Bobby—had known _that_ from the very beginning.

"You know Sam better than anyone. You gotta get past the fact that you don't want him tryin' to get you outta this, 'cause he's gonna do it anyway. Boy's got _stubborn_ tattooed on his ass." Bobby smiled when Dean gave a short laugh. "Somethin' else he picked up from you, I 'spose."

He smirked somewhat pitifully. "Too bad he couldn't grab _acceptance_ while he was at it."

"You ain't any more accepting of this than Sam is—"

"I am, Bobby." Dean scrubbed his hands against the material of his jeans, leaving smudges of oil and grease on the denim. "We screw with this deal, Sam dies. I'm not lettin' that happen again."

"Good luck tellin' your brother that."

Dean nodded and motioned somewhat sheepishly at the windshield-less Hemi-Cuda. "I know a dealer over in Colorado. He'll give me a good price on new glass."

The situation was so unbelievably crappy that Bobby couldn't help but let out a resigned breath. "I'll get the glass—you just make sure you replace it before you leave."

And Dean, for one of the first times in Bobby's excellent memory, looked exactly as he did when he was a kid; he knew he'd screwed up, knew he was in trouble…but he also knew that he was being tentatively forgiven.

_**/SNSNSNSNSN/**_

He found Sam not an hour later upstairs in the spare bedroom, repacking his duffel bag simply because he looked like he might explode without something to do.

Leaning in the door frame, Bobby couldn't help but feel for the poor kid. As if the Winchester family hadn't sacrificed _enough_ to the hunt.

But he knew that once Dean was gone, Sam wouldn't be too far behind. The two brother's who'd been inseparable since childhood were inseparable in adulthood and there was no doubt in the old man's mind that when they were pulled apart, it would be disastrous.

There was a vicious quality to their relationship in the sense that both men held onto each other _viciously._ If you threatened Sam, Dean got dangerously violent and unpredictable…and if you threatened Dean, well…Sam just got dangerous.

Dangerous and self-destructive.

He cleared his throat to announce himself even though he was sure that Sam had heard him before he'd even made it to the bedroom door.

"You feelin' like somethin' to eat, Sam?"

The kid's movements were jerky and furious as he stuffed a rolled up sweater into the depths of his bag. "No thanks."

"Well, you boys gotta eat somethin'."

"Not really in the mood."

"For food or my company?"

The words seemed to resonate and Sam sighed, looking over his shoulder with impossible sadness in his eyes. "I didn't mean you, Bobby."

"No?"

"I'm just…" He paused, running a hand through his longish hair.

"Yeah, kid…I know."

And he _did_ know.

"Lemme tell you, Sam, I wish there was somethin' else I could do for you boys."

Sam shook his head, setting himself down gingerly on his bed.

If there was one thing the older man was sick of seeing it was the ever-present droop in Sam's shoulders. It seemed like it was a new permanent addition to the younger Winchester's very existence. Only because of his brother would Sam be so unbelievably depressed, and only his brother could make it all go away.

Problem was? Dean flat out refused.

There was only one reason that Dean would tolerate his little brother's pain, and that was for the sake of the Crossroads Deal. They messed with the deal and Sam died…there wasn't anything else to it. That's all that Dean saw, it was the only thing he understood.

There wasn't a thing that Bobby could do to make things better, so he settled for simply standing there, leaning in the doorframe of the bedroom.

He knew from experience that misery, quite literally, loved company.

If he couldn't fix it? He'd at least be there to suffer through it, too.

* * *

"_Ok, now take good care of it and keep it safe. That'll be a good Christmas present, don't you think?"_

_A young Sam held the amulet loosely in his hand, examining it closely. "You think dad'll like it?"_

"_I think your daddy'll love it."_

"_What exactly is it?"_

_Bobby moved a little closer and lowered his voice, as if sharing some great secret. "It's very special," he said, moving it gently across Sam's palm with one of his fingers. "There's magic inside there, very powerful magic." He smiled. "It'll keep your daddy safe when he needs it most."_

_Sam's eyes widened slightly and looked back down at the little talisman, attached to a long black cord. His little fingers closed around it and Bobby affectionately ruffled the little boy's hair, knowing that he'd guard the necklace and take care of it until the holidays._

_He only hoped that John appreciated it as much as he should._

_It was a present from his youngest son and therefore it was invaluable._

_Months later, right after Christmas, Bobby had once again welcomed the Winchester boys in his home. He hadn't been at all surprised to see the little amulet hanging comfortably from around Dean's neck._

_Oh well…_

_It seemed to belong there, anyway._

_END  
_


	16. T

**Author's Note:** Hey all! First off, a huge apology for how long this has taken to get posted. I've been trying to get this letter finished for literally going on three years, and with no productive muse whatsoever, it has proven to be a real challenge. Couple that with a broken laptop that decided to eat all of my word documents and you have a recipe for the worst writers block I think I've ever had in over ten years of writing. So again, my apologies to anyone that has been waiting or following this series. I guarantee that this series WILL be finished and I promise that it won't take a further three years lol

This chapter is dedicated to Lythandre who sent me the most wonderful message regarding these stories and definitely had a hand in getting those old creative juices flowing again. So, my dear, thank you so very much for taking the time to message me. I couldn't have gotten this one finished without you!

I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Cheers!

**Disclaimer:** Still just playing in the sandbox. I own nothing. Though I wish I did...

* * *

**T is for Train**

Train: a series of railroad cars moved as a unit by a locomotive or by integral motors; a means of travel or escape.

* * *

The old and ratty curtains fluttered in the light breeze coming in through the open window and Sam sighed quietly to himself, looking down at the open book he held loosely in his hands.

His internal clock was telling him that it was sometime after midnight and even though he was tired, completely exhausted, he couldn't seem to make himself lay down. His mind was going a mile a minute and he knew that sleep wouldn't come to him easily.

He'd made a decision that day.

After what felt like weeks of agonizing over it and thinking about it, he'd _finally_ made a choice.

He was leaving.

It hadn't been an easy choice to make. In fact, it was probably the most difficult decision he'd made since the day he'd chosen to accept his Stanford scholarship. They were coming up on the four month anniversary of their father's death and the words still rang painfully clearly in his ears.

_He just said that I have to save you, that nothin' else mattered…_

…_and if I couldn't…_

…_I'd have to kill you._

And as strange as it was, even though the words had originated with their father, they'd hurt all the more coming from Dean.

Sam hadn't wanted to believe it at first. He hadn't wanted to believe that the demon that had worked to destroy their lives year after year, person after person, had tainted him…_poisoned _him so that he could be used later for something bigger and more terrifying than anything he could imagine. Deep down in his heart, Sam had finally accepted that his father had known; somehow, someway, whatever his future held the old man had known about it and had left them to face it alone.

But not before giving his favorite son one last order.

And Dean for his part hadn't wanted to believe it any more than Sam had; the look on the older man's face when he'd told Sam about it had demonstrated that much at least. That was cause for some fleeting feelings of relief, even though it wasn't much in the grand scheme of things.

They'd checked themselves into a below-their-usual-standards motel just outside of Winona, Minnesota, and after noticing a schedule tacked up in the front office, Sam had learned the location of a small train station only a few minutes away. He'd buy a ticket and leave his family behind—his maverick older brother and his beloved cherry-black baby.

_He said that I might have to kill you, Sammy._

And as he grabbed his duffle bag, quietly leaving the motel room he was sharing with Dean—who was dead to the world in the bed closest to the door—those words echoed loudly in Sam's ears.

He didn't know what his future held in store for him. All he _did_ know was that the responsibility for what he could become _would not_ be piled onto Dean's already burdened shoulders. There was only so much a person could take, only so many obligations one man could handle before breaking down completely. John Winchester's final words were too much, even for Sam's childhood hero.

And so he'd face those words and that destiny alone and give Dean a break from constantly protecting and constantly watching. Try to remove some of that weight and take it on himself.

Because after all, Dean didn't have the corner on protecting his brother

_Sam_ was a brother, too.

* * *

Sprawled out on his stomach with the blankets twisted around his midsection, Dean came back to awareness slowly. The room was black as pitch, the _only_ sounds coming from the decrepit old air conditioner that was whirring and clanking up a storm in the far corner. He briefly wondered if that was what had woken him as he stretched out his arms and legs.

As he always did when waking up in the dead of night he turned to look blankly at the empty bed only a few feet away.

It took a minute before he realized what was wrong with that picture and lurched upright.

"Sam?"

Dean's big-brother spidey-sense was tingling and without hesitation he reached over and switched on the lamp that was sitting on his bedside table. The room was suddenly bathed in light and as if his eyes didn't believe what he'd seen in the darkness he looked again to Sam's bed.

It was untouched.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered darkly to himself, raising his right hand to squint down at his watch. "Son of a _bitch_."

_4:26AM._

With a tremendous amount of effort he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and forced himself to stand, his muscles popping the moment he started to move. The air in the room was cold and he felt goosebumps rise on the bare skin of his arms as he crossed the room in three quick strides, sweeping aside the curtains of the window. His eyes immediately fell on the rain-slicked back end of the Impala parked only a few feet away from their room door…exactly where Dean had left her.

_Where the hell is he?_

And when he turned around to once again study the room, it was then that he saw it.

The folded piece of paper sitting innocently on their small dining table.

Dean lunged for it, Sam's near-perfect handwriting glaring up at him in a form that was becoming far too routine for the older brother's liking. The note was short and to the point, so very like _Sam_, that Dean had had to read it three times before the words truly started to sink in.

_I'm leaving. I can't be your responsibility anymore._

Dean prided himself on the fact that he knew Sam, genuinely _knew_ him, better than the Sasquatch knew himself; and even though Sam hadn't said the words out loud, Dean knew that he'd been thinking about it…mulling things over and figuring out what his options were. The months since losing their father had been some of the most difficult since Sam had returned to the hunt, challenging both brothers and forcing them to bring issues into the open that both men would rather bury.

Sam's humanity, his destiny…the final words of their dad that, even months later, still haunted the now _oldest_ Winchester.

_I'm leaving._

Dean couldn't deny that he'd kept a closer eye than usual on Sam ever since. How could he not? One of the people he'd trusted most in the world had given him a stern warning and despite how much he _hated _it, how furious he was with his father for opening his damn mouth in the first place, he couldn't ignore it. He couldn't push it aside or pretend that it hadn't happened, regardless of how much he wanted to. Sam _was_ his responsibility—it was his job to watch over the kid, protect him, keep him on the straight and narrow. His plan had been to lay low until they could figure out just what in the hell was going on…

Then came Sam's first disappearing act.

After the debacle in River Grove—a picturesque little town, its only flaw being that it's residents were blood-infected knife-wielding crazy people—Dean had revealed the truth about their dad's final words, and as it would with anyone, it had completely turned Sam inside out. At the first available opportunity the determined little punk had taken off for Indiana, doing everything in his power to make sure that Dean, who was traveling along angrily behind him, couldn't track him down or interfere. As a big brother who prided himself on his never-failing knowledge of Sam's whereabouts, it had been beyond humiliating having to call the Roadhouse and practically beg Ellen for information, somehow knowing that Sam would go there to recruit Ash for the cause.

_Now, Dean, they say you can't protect your loved ones forever. _

_Well I say 'screw that'. What else is family for?_

_He's in Lafayette, Indiana._

And then all hell had broken loose—Ava Wilson, Gordon Walker, trip wires, and a furious Dean Winchester tied to a chair.

The two brothers had had a rare heart-to-heart in the car afterwards where Dean had said that under no circumstances was Sam to _ever_ take off in such a way again. Whatever was coming, whatever Sam's supposed _destiny_ was, they would work through it together as they always had previously and as they were meant to.

And Sam had agreed.

Which made disappearing act number two even more nerve-wracking.

They had just finished a simple salt and burn in West Texas and had schlepped their way into their motel room, Dean stripping off his sodden black jacket and kicking off his boots in a near stupor. Sam had very graciously offered to walk to the diner down the street to pick up burgers, and Dean, ecstatic at the idea of a cheeseburger with hot sauce and extra onions, had handed his brother a crisp twenty dollar bill before throwing himself face first onto his bed.

The panic had set in slowly and after an hour of pacing and calling Sam's cell phone with no answer, Dean had stomped his way out to the Impala to start the search.

_Ellen, it's me again. Any chance you've heard from him?_

_I swear, it's like lookin' for my dad all over again. Losin' my mind here._

_No, I've called him a thousand times! There's nothin' but voicemail. I don't know where he went or why._

_Sam's just gone._

And once again, all hell had broken loose—a brutally murdered hunter, a psycho-demon-possessed Sam, a bullet in Dean's shoulder, and a thoroughly freaked out Jo Harvelle.

Now, Dean found himself staring at the business-end of disappearing act number three. The only difference was that if it was truly Sam's intention to leave? Dean knew where he was headed.

There was only one place he _could_ go.

* * *

The Impala rumbled to a sudden stop in the parking lot of the train station and Dean wasted no time in throwing open his door and getting out of the car.

It was surprisingly busy for how late it was, people milling about with suitcases and duffle bags. His eavesdropping as he headed towards the Amtrak train sitting on the tracks told him that it was scheduled to leave for Indianapolis in only twenty minutes time. Dean headed straight for it. He knew that if Sam was there he wouldn't be waiting for the departure in the station; he'd be sitting on the train, looking instead to stay out of sight just in case some distressed big brother cruised by looking for him.

Dean didn't even hesitate as he grabbed hold of the silver handrail and pulled himself up into the first passenger car.

He made a quick left and walked through the car's narrow doorway, finding himself faced with two long rows of seats. There were people scattered throughout the car with their noses buried in books or with headphones in their ears, and Dean scanned the face of every single one as he walked down the center of the aisle, looking for the familiar stupid floppy hair and downcast eyes.

And there, right at the back on the right hand side…was Sammy.

Dean slowed his steps and approached with a purpose, knowing immediately when Sam recognized that he was there. The younger Winchester froze solid in his seat with his eyes staring almost determinedly out the large window and Dean let out a long breath, standing in the aisle with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Sam."

Sam said nothing, he simply rested his head back against his seat's headrest. Dean had to grit his teeth for a moment, trying desperately to keep his temper in line…at least until he could get the kid back to the motel where he could kick his ass up between his shoulder blades in private.

"You got ten seconds to get your emo bitch ass off this train, or so help me God, I'll carry you off myself."

The older couple sitting directly behind Sam fell silent and were watching the entire exchange with dumbfounded looks on their faces, as if they were expecting that any moment the two rather large young men would start throwing punches. The wife was looking at her husband expectantly, in a way that clearly said she wanted him to stand up and intervene, maybe tell the two of them to move their issues outside. He was looking back at her with wide eyes, an expression that said, '_I don't think so, crazy lady'._

Dean blatantly ignored them, instead focusing his attention on his fugitive little brother.

Sam still stayed silent and Dean leaned forward after a moment, bracing his hands on the seats and effectively trapping the kid in his chair. In a quiet voice that sounded dangerous even to him, he said, "You hearin' me?"

There was a very quiet, "Yeah."

"Then get up."

There was only the slightest hesitation before Sam stood, absentmindedly adjusting the strap of his satchel on his shoulder. Dean couldn't help but watch him like a hawk as he moved into the aisle, grabbed his duffle from the overhead compartment, and started back towards the exit.

The few people on the train seemed to let out an almost perceptible breath of relief as the brothers took their leave, Dean's boots and Sam's sneakers landing firmly on the darkened asphalt as they stepped down, one after the other.

The Impala was clearly visible sitting in the glow of a streetlamp across the parking lot and Sam immediately headed towards it, Dean following along right behind him, and by the time they made it to the car, he was good and pissed. Sam came to a slow stop and leaned himself against the passenger door, his eyes focusing _anywhere_ but on his big brother, and Dean felt his irritation skyrocket accordingly. He was being _dodged_, avoided, no question about it.

He was being _ditched._

Dean moved to open the driver's door, but paused, instead sending a furious glare at the younger man over the roof of the car. "You and me? We got a problem." The words were thrown out with so much venom, such a deadly calm, that Sam at least had the good sense to look nervous. Dean rounded back to the passenger side and advanced, clenching his hands into fists in an effort to keep them from shaking. "What the hell is wrong with you, huh? Takin' off like that."

"Dean, look—"

"I'm gettin' so sick of chasin' you, Sam…asking you to stay around, hell, practically _begging_ you to stick this out. Is this your way of tellin' me that I've been wasting my breath all this time?"

Sam finally raised his eyes to Dean's and he just barely shook his head, looking as if he wanted to speak but for some reason wasn't able to form the words. There was powerful emotion in the kid's eyes, tumultuous emotion, and Dean recognized it for what it was instantly—whatever was going on inside his brother's head was raw and intense and for the shortest second he wanted to abandon his anger and switch gears to concerned older brother.

Part of Dean wanted to forgive without question. All he had to do was look into those big wet hazel eyes and his heart started yelling at him to play nicely.

But then somewhere in the background he recognized the telltale screeching sounds as the train started to pull away from the station and Dean was reminded where they were; he was reminded that if he hadn't woken up right when he did, if he'd been only a few _minutes _later, Sam would be well on his way to Indianapolis without a backwards glance.

_I can't be your responsibility anymore._

Dean shook his head, let out an angry breath, and very nearly snarled, "What is it, Sam? You think you're puttin' me at risk by staying with me? You think that whatever freak factor you're carryin' around is more dangerous than everything else?"

Sam looked absolutely miserable and started moving a pebble around with the toe of his sneaker.

"You _really_ think you're not my responsibility? You _really_ think that I'd be better off on my own?" Sam mumbled something unintelligible and Dean leaned in closer, raising his eyebrows. "What?"

"I said, don't tell me you haven't thought about it." Sam visibly swallowed hard. "What dad said? Maybe I can't be saved, Dean."

And _there_ was the problem. The guillotine that had been hanging over their heads ever since the night their father had died.

Sammy's floundering self-worth.

_When Dad told me that I might have to kill you…it was only if I couldn't save you. Now, if it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna save you._

Dean was a force to be reckoned with and he knew it. Even at the age of twenty-four, the year he'd finally started hunting completely on his own, he'd already had a reputation amongst other hunters. They'd known him by sight and oftentimes whenever he and another hunter stumbled across each other working the same job, the other would bow out gracefully, knowing enough about the Winchester men to leave without any real argument.

And now that he was even older that reputation had done nothing but grow right along with him.

Sam may have been the pit-bull when it came to research and fact-finding…but _Dean_ was like a pit-bull when it came to _Sam._

He didn't know what was in his little brother's future, what the yellow-eyed demon had planned, but the truth was it didn't matter. What he'd said that night in the Impala—less than an hour after having a bullet dug out of his shoulder and exorcizing a furious Meg from Sam's body—still rang true. He'd do what he needed to, what was required of him, to make sure that Sam stayed on the right path.

Up to and including kicking the nerdy little bitch in the ass whenever he started feeling sorry for himself.

"Sam?" He leaned in close and raised his eyebrows again, using the action to get his brother's attention. Once they locked eyes Dean spoke in a very serious voice. "You gotta stop tryin' to outrun whatever this is, you hear me? After all that crap with Meg we agreed that we'd deal with it, that we'd take things slow. I said that I'm gonna figure this out, I said that I'm gonna save you…but dammit, you gotta _let_ me try."

"I don't want you afraid of me, Dean."

_Ah hell._

For one of the first times in his very full life, Dean Winchester, for the shortest instant, didn't know what to say.

Being afraid of Sam wasn't possible.

Sam was his little brother, his best and only real friend…how could he ever be afraid of someone he needed in his life so desperately? He'd known Sam as a baby, a toddler, a child, a teenager, and eventually, a man; a fiercely loyal and sensitive man that was always able to flare Dean's near violent protectiveness with the simplest movement or dejected word. And it made absolutely no difference what warnings their father had spouted off, none of it mattered.

Truth was, they were both freaks in their own way; each having their own issues, their own personal battles to deal with. And Dean had decided that this _particular_ issue—their father's warning—was one of the battles that they were going to wage together. To hell with what Sam wanted.

The sound of the train was starting to fade away and Dean let out a breath, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his worn leather jacket.

"I'm not afraid of you, Sammy," he said truthfully, his voice a tad on the rough side. "I don't want you thinkin' like that."

"How can you _say_ that? With all that's happened?"

"It's easy to say when it's the truth."

"Dean—"

"You said that you ran _all_ the way to California and look what ended up happening." He nodded in the direction the train tracks. "Just answer me this, dude, alright? What makes you think Indianapolis would be any different?"

"And _you're_ the one that said you were tired. Do _you_ remember? In the clinic at River Grove, you said you were tired."

If Dean had known at the time how those words were gonna chap his ass in the months to come, he never would've uttered them out loud. "I can't believe you're throwin' that back in my face, man. That's not what I meant and you damn well know it."

"But you feel that way, Dean. How much is too much?"

"How much of _what_?"

"_This!"_ Sam held out his arms to indicate their situation in general and Dean felt his breath hitch at the intense moisture that was suddenly pooling in the kid's eyes. He looked devastated, sad, as he stood there…Dean could practically _feel_ the anxiety coming off of him in waves. "_All_ of this, Dean. The visions, the demon, the never-ending pile of crap that dad left us to clean up. It's all me, it's my fault." Sam pointed a finger at him. "And if you're honest, you'll admit it."

"Then I guess I'm a dishonest son of a bitch, 'cause I don't think it's your fault. The stuff that dad did, that the demon did? That's not you, Sam. It's _not_ your fault and all this effort you're putting into blamin' yourself? It's gonna kill you one of these days."

"Yeah, or it's gonna kill you."

_Wait. What?_

Dean couldn't help but pull back at Sam's words, his eyes widening in surprise. "What are you talkin' about?"

Sam shook his head. _Forget it._

"No, no, hey—" Dean took a step closer and swatted Sam's shoulder, moving to stand directly in his brother's line of sight. There was no running…not from him, not again. "Sammy."

A few seconds passed where there was silence between them—one brother not knowing what to say, and the other brother wishing desperately for the kid to just say _something…_preferably before something in his nervous system ruptured.

_Those boys, lemme tell ya—they can talk without talkin'._

Dean didn't know why he remembered those words at that particular moment, but he did. And not only did he remember those words, he remembered the day Bobby had said them…just a few days short of the sixth anniversary of their mother's death.

It was always the same every year at the beginning of November; John would drink himself into a stupor…Sam would fall into a complete depression, isolating himself from everyone…and Dean would flip-flop between the two of them, taking care of a father that couldn't take care of himself and a brother that was so heartbroken he couldn't utter two words, all the while doing what he could to tend to his _own_ pain. It was the one time a year where the remaining three members of the Winchester family were inconsolable and of absolutely no use.

During that time, Dean spent most of his time with Sam. The kid may have only been six years old at the time but he had known and understood that their mom was gone and that she wasn't coming back; she was _with the angels_, as Dean had always tried to sugar-coat it when they were younger. But try as an older brother might, Sam had always known the real truth…on one level or another.

And so the two brothers would spend those days in silence—sharing hugs when they were needed, watching cartoons together on Bobby's ratty old sofa in the library, playing _go fish_ and pointing at the cards rather than speaking out loud. They would have entire conversations without saying a single word…and Bobby was the adult that noticed, their father too far gone.

And then the sun would rise on November 3rd and Sam would start speaking again, his first whispered words always shared with his brother.

They'd had that connection their entire lives, at least up until Sam had left for Stanford, and they'd managed to rebuild it over the two years they'd been back on the road together. So standing there at a train station in Minnesota with their eyes locked and their mouths silent? On some level, they'd been talking the entire time.

_What if you can't do it?_

_What if I turn?_

_What if I hurt you?_

_What if dad was right?_

Dean wished that there was an easy answer. He wished that there was a way for him to get the heartsick expression off of Sam's face and replace it with the patented smile he felt like he hadn't seen in months. But there was no easy answer to be had, and truth be told, he was feeling just as heartsick as Sam was.

Their father had left them in a terrible mess and with no real idea as to what they would face in the coming months. The questions that Dean could see in his brother's eyes were reasonable. He'd asked himself the very same things, only never out loud where Sammy could hear it…he didn't _need_ to hear it. He didn't want Sam worrying about the pressure it was putting on Dean's shoulders; his shoulders were strong, they could handle whatever he and Sam needed them to handle.

_His_ stress wasn't supposed to be _Sam's_.

"It's too much, Dean." Sam's voice broke and he leaned even more of his weight against the the side of the Impala. He was no longer standing at his full height and it was as if the kid had deflated, his shoulders slumping and his back bent. There was a burden on him, Dean could see it, _feel _it, as if he were carrying it himself. "You're just one man, one person. You can't protect me from everything. This is too much, even for you."

"Shouldn't that be _my _call?"

"But you won't _make_ the call, that's the problem. I killed Steven Wandell, I went after Joe…hell, I went after _Bobby_. And no matter what I did, you wouldn't—"

"Shoot, yeah, I know." Dean ran a hand down his roughly unshaven face and shook his head, "But it wasn't _you_. We talked about this, man_._"

"You didn't know that."

"Yeah, I did."

Sam snapped his head up at the words and Dean couldn't help but shake his head at the look of complete awe on his face.

It was as if he was _surprised_.

Surprised that Dean wouldn't believe that Sam, the kid he'd raised, would slit another hunter's throat or force himself on Joe…that Dean wouldn't believe that Sam would pull a gun on him, shoot him, and walk away without a word or backwards glance. _His _Sam wouldn't do those things. _His_ Sam would rather pull his own heart out and stomp on it than do those things.

And Dean knew exactly how that felt because he felt the same way when it came to the possible part he could end up playing in Sam's so-called _fate_. He'd decided almost immediately that he wouldn't do it, no matter what ended up happening he wouldn't be the one to take Sam's life. He'd find a way to save the kid or he'd kill himself trying.

"I can stand here and tell you that I don't want you takin' off again, no more sneakin out in the middle of the night. But me sayin' that doesn't seem to mean very much in the grand scheme, neither does _you_ saying that you'll stay." Dean shrugged his shoulders and let out a laugh completely devoid of humor. It was a laugh full of bitterness and disappointment…and maybe deep down inside somewhere, there was a little bit of hurt mixed in there, too. "I just don't get why you're so hell-bent on ditchin' me all the time."

"I don't wanna ditch you, Dean." The words were spoken so softly and so unexpectedly that Dean almost didn't hear them over the light breeze that suddenly blew over them. "It's not like that."

"No? This is the second time you've taken off on me since dad died—_not_ counting the time Meg rode you to Duluth. Ain't much else it can be, Sam." At the mention of their father, as always, Dean had to pause for a second and swallow to get rid of the lump in his throat. As he'd been telling himself almost constantly since being released from the hospital after the accident, _there was just too damn much to be depressed about. _He nodded towards the car and sniffled slightly in the unseasonably cold air, saying, "Come on, let's get outta here. I'm cold."

And that's how it was—the two of them sliding into their respective seats in the Impala and Dean starting her up, neither brother speaking a single word all the way back to the motel.

As he often did when there was tension in the car Sam spent the entire drive with his eyes glued to the passenger side window, as if every answer to every problem they had was somewhere beyond the slowly fogging pane of glass. Dean recognized it for what it was, though; staring through the window at the quickly passing countryside was Winchester avoidance at its best. As long as Sam stayed perfectly still, controlled his breathing so not to make a sound, his eyes planted firmly on something that _wasn't_ his big brother he wasn't encouraging conversation.

Well, that suited Dean just fine.

He didn't wanna talk to the overly-emotional self-sacrificial little punk, either.

The old motel's parking lot came up on their left hand side and as Dean made the turn, he said a silent _thank you_ to whomever was listening that their parking spot—right in front of their room door—was still available. Telling Sam that he'd been cold hadn't just been a way to end the beyond awkward conversation back at the train station, he was _in_ _fact_ freezing his ass off. And the idea of having to park and walk? Well, it was just too obnoxious for words.

After directing the car into the parking space, he pulled the key from the ignition and pushed his door open in one swift movement.

He could hear Sam doing the same thing, could feel the kid behind him as he climbed the steps and pulled the decrepit old key card from his pocket, but he didn't acknowledge it. Not yet, anyway. If another discussion erupted once they were inside their own space then so be it…but it was not a conversation, or _confrontation_, that would be had outside.

The blast of warmth that hit them the moment they crossed the doorstep had Dean stripping off his leather jacket and hanging it somewhat precariously on the back of one of their wooden chairs.

The note that Sam had left him—_I'm leaving…I can't be your responsibility anymore—_was sitting noticeably on the gouged surface of the dining table and Dean averted his eyes, not even bothering to look at it. Seeing words like that written in Sam's handwriting would only make him mad and he had enough anger bubbling under the surface as it was.

Sam, on the other hand, was either completely oblivious to how Dean was feeling or he was blatantly ignoring it because a second later, he asked, "How did you know where I was?"

Dean moved to the end of his bed and opened the zipper of his duffle bag in one steady move, glancing up towards Sam, but never making eye contact. "You didn't take the car or boost one from the lot. Figured you'd either hitch or take a train." He shrugged his shoulders. "Had a fifty-fifty shot."

"I'm sorry."

Dean didn't say anything. He simply started to fold one of his long-sleeved shirts with a little more force than necessary.

"I got thinking about things, and…" The younger man appeared in the corner of Dean's vision, dropping his backpack onto his own bed. "I dunno."

"That's the problem right there—_you got thinkin'_. You're smart as hell, Sam, but your brain can be a real pain in the ass sometimes." Dean grabbed another shirt and kept right on folding…until he admitted to himself that he wasn't a _folder_ and rolled it up into a ball, stuffing it into corner of his bag. "_Nobody_ could handle this on their own. There's not _one_ _person_ out there that could do it. But for some reason, you seem pretty damn sure that you can."

"I keep saying that it's not like that."

"Then explain it to me, 'cause it seems that my brain ain't as smart as yours."

Dean didn't see the expression cross Sam's face, but he felt it. The patented expression that Sam always wore whenever Dean said such things—the '_aww hell'_ face mixed in with the _'don't say stuff like that' _look. It was an expression that the older man chaffed at but secretly appreciated.

The bed springs of Sam's bed protested loudly when he lowered himself down onto it, leaning forward to face Dean and resting his elbows on his knees. He spoke in a quiet voice. "Maybe…part of it…is that _I'm_ afraid."

And at that, Dean couldn't keep averting his eyes.

He locked hazels with his brother's and spoke in an equally quiet voice, still holding one of his t-shirts in his hands. "Afraid of what?"

There was the slightest hesitation—Sam sitting on his bed facing Dean, who was standing at the foot of his bed closest to the door. It was a state they'd found themselves in countless times over the years, and sometimes the air was heavy in those moments and sometimes it wasn't.

Right then, the air _was_ heavy…but not with tension or awkwardness as one might expect, hell, as Dean _himself_ would expect. No, it was something else entirely.

_Anxiousness._

_Regret._

_Fear._

_Panic._

_Guilt._

Jesus, the _guilt. _

There was so much _guilt_ in the air, in their _lives_, that sometimes it felt like that was all there was.

"Sammy?" Dean prodded gently, reminding Sam that he hadn't answered and that there was a pair of well-practiced ears waiting and available.

"Y'know what I realized the other day? I mean, I _knew_ it but I hadn't really thought about it before." When Sam looked up, locking his now impossibly sad eyes with Dean's, the older man felt the misery hit him like a battering ram squarely in his chest. His breath was nearly stolen from him as Sam continued on. "We're alone, Dean. Mom's gone, Dad's gone…we don't have any other family, and even if we did, we don't know them. We're all that's left. You deserve a good life, Dean. You deserve a family and to be able to do whatever you want—fantasy football, barbeques…fixing up an old Charger like you've always said you want to. _One of us_ needs to move on from all this and I thought that if I left…"

"You thought that if you left I'd be able to just, what…let you go? I'd wake up, realize you were gone, go find a girl and settle down? Just like that."

"I wanted to give you the_ choice_."

"This has never been about _choice_, Sam." Dean could feel the fire in his own eyes, could feel that anger and incredible frustration heating up under his skin. It was a familiar feeling, one that often walked hand-in-hand with his recently rarely-controllable temper. "What happened to Mom, what happened to Dad…whatever's happening with you. We never asked for any of this crap. It's not about choice…or at least it _hasn't_ been, up until now."

Sam looked down towards the worn carpet, his knuckles noticeably turning white as he wrung his hands together.

"I can't control much in this craphole world, Sam. But what I _can _control? Is where I spend my time and who I spend it with, however much time I got left." He held his arms out wide, as if to indicate their situation in general, and said, "I _choose_ to be here. And I _choose_ to make sure that both of us come out the other side, 'cause you're right, we're all that's left. If I end up living a life like that—barbeques in Pleasantville—you can bet your ass you're gonna be there too, 'cause Christ knows I can't do it alone." He dropped his arms back down to his sides and in a serious voice said, "I wouldn't wanna do it alone."

They looked at each other again.

Tears were pooling in the corners of Sam's eyes, reminding Dean of a time when a short-assed little kid had looked up at him from where he'd been tucked under his big brother's arm, terrified of whatever was living in the closet.

Those days were long gone, because that kid had grown into a man that fearlessly went after the monsters in the closet on his own.

Dean dropped the t-shirt he'd been holding into his bag and walked over to stand next to Sam, wrapping a hand around the back of the kid's neck and giving a gentle squeeze. "You gotta make your own choice now." He said the words firmly but he injected an undercurrent of softness only because he knew that Sam would detect it. "If you _really_ wanna go…if being on your own is _really_ what you _want_…then I swear on Dad I won't stop you. But it's gotta be for the right reasons, Sammy. You can't do it because you're afraid or worried about me; I don't need you to worry about me, I can handle it. Make the choice for _yourself_."

Sam cleared his throat. "You don't have the corner on protecting your brother, Dean."

"No, I know that." He pulled his hand from Sam's neck and crossed his arms over his chest. "That's why I'm makin' the offer, Sam…it's a one-time-only deal. If you wanna go, then go now. If not…then you stay here with me and we see this through. No more sneakin' off, no matter what happens."

He tried to inject enough seriousness, enough irritation, into his voice to make sure that he got his point across and that Sam understood it.

Simply saying the words out loud went against every instinct Dean had. Telling Sam that he could go if he wanted to, that he himself would actually _allow_ him to leave. If Sam actually decided to leave, Dean would grudgingly keep his word. He would let it happen, wouldn't stand in the way. That didn't mean, however, that he wouldn't go after him as soon as he was able.

And he knew he would, regardless of any agreements that had been made.

How could he not?

He'd let Sam leave once before, and despite the fact that it had nearly killed him, he'd found a way to ignore the part of him that had been screaming to get in the car and follow; to ambush the California-bound Greyhound at the first stop and to drag the kid back 'home' kicking and screaming. But it wouldn't have made a difference. He'd learned that the hard way the first time he'd traveled to Stanford himself, only a couple of weeks after the beginning of Sam's freshman year.

He'd never seen anything like it.

Perfectly manicured lawns and landscaping. Tall palm trees and cobblestone pathways. Beige stucco buildings with brown thatched rooftops. Sophisticated professors in power suits and students dressed in campus clothing, all smiling in the bright California sunshine.

It was a place that had offered so much—freedom, education…a bright future. And as Dean had stood there, leaning against the side of the dust covered Impala wearing his leather jacket and perpetually torn jeans, he knew that there was nothing, _absolutely nothing_, that he could offer Sam that would be able to compete with that place.

There wasn't enough. _He_ wasn't enough.

It had been a very painful realization.

But at that moment in the small hole-in-the-wall motel in Winona, it had never been more obvious that times had changed. Stanford and the endless possibilities it presented were no longer the problem; fear and panic _were_. The unknown.

It had never occurred to him that he'd ever be able to think of the Stanford disaster as being _simpler times._ It had been a time when he and Sam had been as normal as they could be…but also as _different_ as they could be. He'd never say it out loud but there were days where he couldn't help but miss the problems of their adolescence, as far away as they were.

Sam suddenly spoke up, bringing Dean back to the present.

"Running away is getting to be a regular thing for me, isn't it?" He chuckled somewhat bitterly, glancing up to meet Dean's eyes for an instant then looking back down at the carpet. "Ran to Stanford to get away from Dad, ran _from _Stanford after Jess died…ran away from you before that job with the scarecrow in Burkitsville."

"Hey, come on, man—" Dean let out a breath as he sat himself down on his own bed, making it so that he and Sam were only a couple feet apart. He scrubbed a hand down his roughly unshaven face and said, "You came back to Burkitsville. Saved my bacon, as I remember it."

Sam barely smiled.

"Sometimes running can be a good thing. Bailing on a fight you _know_ you can't win? Hell, I'd probably be dead a thousand times over if Bobby hadn't taught us _that_ one when we were tykes." He shrugged his shoulders, trying to appear as confident as possible…and he did what he could to inject some of that false confidence into his voice when he said, "But we don't know how this one's gonna turn out yet, Sam."

"Then we should see it through."

The younger Winchester spoke softly, albeit firmly, forming his words into a solid statement as opposed to an uncertain question. There was strength in those words, a strength that was surprising seeing as how they were coming from a man who not an hour previously had been sitting somewhat despondently on a train bound for Indianapolis.

But then, more often than not, that's how things went with Sam.

He had moments of complete and impossible sadness followed by a sudden fervor, a fierce desire to get results or find a solution to whatever problem that had caused the sadness in the first place. And again, more often than not, Dean would stand aside and let that fervor take over, knowing that in the end immersing himself in research and investigation was as therapeutic for his brother as beer and brunettes were for Dean himself.

That Sammy-like-fervor was a well-known phenomenon in the world of the Winchesters and Dean had dealt with it numerous times throughout their childhood; homework, hunting research, exams…nothing was safe from Sam's determination. And now in adulthood, the same was true; lore, lunar cycles and moon phases, interviewing tactics and diplomacy.

_Then we should see it through._

In those words, Dean felt that he was getting a commitment—a kind of guarantee that he would never again wake up in the middle of the night to find the bed next to his empty and never again would he have to stoop to a new level of humiliation and call Ellen for information. Something told him that the secrecy and desertions were a thing of the past and that for the first time since Sam's return, they were going to stand together in a truly _united front_.

After all, for the Winchesters, there was strength in numbers.

And those were the words that crossed Dean's mind when he reached forward and placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, trying to _convey_ those words through his thoughtful silence. And when Sam met his eyes, sending him a small smile and a slight not of his head, Dean knew that his message had been received.

They'd carry on, doing the very best they could to survive whatever was coming—because as strong and resourceful as they were, they both knew that something big was on the horizon. Whether it be the mystery surrounding Sam, some new horror at the hands of the demons, or some other unknown menace just waiting for the right moment to strike…both brothers _knew_, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it would most likely answer any remaining questions they had about the night their mother died.

Someone, or some_thing_, out there had all the answers…and a time would come when they would be faced with those answers, whether they wanted them or not.

But Dean knew, also beyond a shadow of a doubt, that as long as they were _together_ they could take on and destroy anything that came their way.

He could only hope that Sam would eventually come to know that, too.

_END_


End file.
